


hypernovae

by Ethereally



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gender Roles, Messy Familial Relationships, Past Abuse, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24901444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethereally/pseuds/Ethereally
Summary: “See that?” Sylvain muses, pointing into the star-covered sky. “That bright star over there, between the two dimmer ones? That's Polaris,” he says. “The North Star. When I was a kid, I read a book that said that if I got lost, all I would have to do was follow Polaris for long enough and she would lead me back to Faerghus. That's you,” Sylvain says, leaning in to give Ingrid a kiss on her cheek. “You're my North Star. You've always been there for me, even when you didn't have to be. Feels right that I ended up following you home.”Ingrid doesn’t give up knighthood: she chooses to rule Galatea instead. It’s up to her to prove the difference.A study on Ingrid’s paired ending with Sylvain, with regards to agency, choices, and the roads that lead you to where you’re meant to be.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 89
Kudos: 131
Collections: Sylvgrid week 2020





	1. take the train

**Author's Note:**

> if you've ever wished that ingrid was more than just a footnote in her paired ending with sylvain--
> 
> this story is for you.

“Home sweet home.”

Sylvain shoves the double doors of Galatea Manor open, and Ingrid is immediately struck by the stale, familiar stench of mildew. Neither her father nor her brothers were particularly good at cleaning; Ingrid can't imagine they’ve improved since she'd gone to war. A cloud of dust billows through the air when Sylvain steps on the faded carpet, confirming her suspicion. He squints into the dimly lit hallway. 

Every bone in Ingrid's body aches from the long journey home from Fhirdiad. Life feels like it's been drained from her every limb. Yet there's a voice at the back of her mind screaming at her to fix it, to fix _this_. She reaches out to squeeze Sylvain's hand softly, lips starting to form reassurances before she’s hit with the warmest of smiles. Sylvain bumps his arm against hers.

“Hey, relax. I don't know about you, but I'm absolutely exhausted. Let's do the charade of saying hi to your folks and then head to bed and pass out. How does that sound?”

A wave of relief washes through Ingrid, flooding through her muscles to unravel the knots in her back and shoulders, crashing through the pit of nerves in her stomach so it scatters and dissipates. Sylvain winks back at her and marches towards the parlor, booming trained hellos at his future in-laws as they scramble on their feet to greet them. Ingrid watches as he laughs and banters with her family, making a great show of being “so excited to be here”, bewitching them with the same effortless charm that had captured her as a young girl for the first time so many years ago. 

She’d thought herself immune to Sylvain’s magnetism in her teenage years, exempt from his attempts to seduce every person in his immediate vicinity regardless of status or gender. Yet when they’d been fending off the Empire as soldiers at Derdriu, Ingrid flying with her pegasus knights into battle while Sylvain led a troop of horseback mages on the ground, he’d turned to her and smiled-- dark armor battered, caked blood on his face, hands lined with burn marks and fire dancing from his palms. He’d dared to mouth the words, “Never doubted you,” and in Ingrid’s chest twisted a strange feeling she hadn’t felt for him since she was a child; a rush of sudden joy that transcended common sense or logic. 

Ingrid must not have much sense, considering her choice in partners of Sylvain, but he’s done so much growing in the last five years. 

The twin throes of war and time have tempered Sylvain into the man she sees before her. He's a born diplomat, parrying her parents’ questions with witty quips, bending over so her young niece and nephew can climb on his shoulders to give them a ride. Ingrid had expected far more resistance from Count Galatea when she'd announced she was bringing _Sylvain_ home-- she wonders if her mom and dad have forgotten what Sylvain was like as a messy teen. Or perhaps Ingrid is the only one who holds memories of the serial cheater, the insatiable flirt, the sweet-talker who she'd spent so much of her youth loving and resenting at the same time.

She bites the inside of her mouth, shelving the thought away. It really would have taken nothing less than a continental war to bring them together, but she's glad to be here. She's even gladder when Sylvain yawns theatrically, and Ingrid takes that as her cue to announce their leave; she drags him and their luggage up the creaking staircase to her childhood bedroom. Sylvain immediately rushes to the window and throws it open, taking in a gulp of fresh autumn air. He turns around to beckon Ingrid over, and when she slots herself next to him he gives her shoulder a little nudge.

“See that?” Sylvain muses, pointing into the star-covered sky. “That bright star over there, between the two dimmer ones? That's Polaris,” he says. “The North Star. When I was a kid, I read a book that said that if I got lost, all I would have to do was follow Polaris for long enough and she would lead me back to Faerghus. That's you,” Sylvain says, and he leans to give Ingrid a kiss on her cheek. “You're my North Star. You've always been there for me, even when you didn't have to be. Feels right that I ended up following you home.”

“Seriously, Sylvain?” Ingrid rolls her eyes, but there's no denying the force that tugs her lips upwards. She inches towards him, relishing in the warmth of his body heat, and how he still manages to be effortlessly handsome despite the scar on his lip and the circles around his eyes. He chuckles in response.

“Even when the other stars dance around it, flickering in and out of sight, Polaris stays where she is all year round. It makes her a great guiding light for travelers. That's you out there with your unwavering conviction. Always wanting to do the right thing, even when it's hard.”

“Unwavering conviction, huh...” Growing up, he would have called her stubborn; this was certainly a nice way to rephrase the term. Ingrid props her elbows against the windowsill, resting her face against her palms. Sylvain runs his hand through her hair, ruffling it gently, and her freshly-chopped locks cascade in a mess around her face.

“Let's go get cleaned up. I don't know about you, but I don't want to smell like this in the morning.”

“For once, I agree.”

Ingrid pulls herself up straight and stretches, cracking every vertebrae in her back. Sylvain lets out a loud whistle of approval before turning tail, bolting out the room and darting down the corridor, and yelling “Race you!” back in her direction. Ingrid lets out a yell her father would have deemed unladylike before rushing up after him. She speeds past him into the bathroom, tearing her clothes off plummeting into the hot bath her eldest brother prepared for them with a splash. When they're done cleaning up (and Ingrid's finished lording her victory over Sylvain) they tumble into bed, talking and laughing while wrapped in each other's arms. They're hotly discussing the merits of Gautier-Galatea versus Galatea-Gautier as a hyphenated last name when Sylvain begins to doze off. Ingrid turns around to blow out the candles on her bedside table.

“Good night, my love,” Sylvain says to her half-awake, and she can barely make his soft smile out in the dim moonlight. She can't help but beam back.

For the first time in all the years she's known him, Sylvain doesn't complain when Ingrid shakes him awake at the crack of dawn. His hair is a rumpled mess and there's gunk crusted in the corner of his chestnut-colored eyes, but he stumbles out of bed with a yawn when she says “let's get to work.” They've got plenty to do as the future Lord and Lady of the house; Sylvain and Ingrid had made the conscious decision to return to Galatea over Gautier first upon the war's end. War had depleted Galatea of whatever resources that they might have once had, and it's only with Gautier's help that they're still left standing.

Sylvain gets to dusting and mopping while Ingrid peruses the shelves of her father's study, gazing over the books about irrigation systems and building sustainable communities around food. The memory of famine casts a dark cloud over her childhood's halcyon days. She recalls a single Airmid Goby lying listlessly on a plate, her father smiling sadly when he said it was for her and her three brothers to share. Ingrid recalls how loudly her mother's stomach had growled that evening when she said their thanks to the Goddess, and how her father had apologized when her brother had asked for more.

Things have improved in Galatea since the worst days of her youth, but it isn't enough. Famine will sweep through her territory once again if they don't take action, and that's only the most immediate thing they have to address. She gets on her tiptoes to pull out a few tomes, then bends down low to grab a few more. When she's done skimming through the books she thinks they'll need, she brings them to Sylvain who's sprawled in her father's velvet chair, staring into the ceiling, sweat dripping from his brow. He sits up straight as she approaches.

“Let's dig in,” he says, yanking the first book open and holding it close to his face. Ingrid picks up the book below it, and the two of them spend the rest of the morning discussing theories and ideas and solutions for what may work. They're still chatting about the famine over lunch with her family. Her niece and nephew grimace when the food is set down in front of them, a single Albinean Herring and two small potatoes. 

Little Alva sticks out her tongue, making a gagging sound.

“Again?” she whines, and Ingrid feels a harsh, wrenching feeling in her chest. She turns to Sylvain to mouth an apology, something about the food being nowhere as good as it would be in Gautier. He takes her hand under the table before she can say anything about it; he shoots her a tender smile, turning around to address her father.

“So, Ingrid and I were looking at irrigation systems. I had an idea about something that might work--”

It's amazing watching Sylvain at work. She's always known he can be brilliant when he's focused, and she's seen this side of him when they were sitting around the war room in Garreg Mach, but it's strange to hear him discuss agriculture like he's been studying it his entire life. She chimes into the conversation, supplementing his points with some of her own. The chatter gets lively soon enough, Ingrid, Sylvain and her brothers taking turns to speak till their conversation reaches a fever pitch, her father nodding at their suggestions while her mother takes notes. Before they know it, Alva and Albert are taking turns to release groans of boredom, whining about being stuck at the dinner table and being “so _bored_.” Sylvain takes that as his cue to get up, putting his hands behind his head.

“All right, you got me there,” he says. “Why don't I take you guys outside?”

The children cheer in agreement, sprinting out of the dining room with Sylvain at their heels. It's just Ingrid, her brothers and her parents at the dining table now, and the spaces between her fingers where Sylvain's once were feel hauntingly empty. A sense of dread begins to creep up on her, and Ingrid can't imagine why; she should be delighted to be alone with her kin. But they've always cast high expectations upon Ingrid, and now Sylvain is gone she can feel the shadow of those standards loom upon her like a specter. Five pairs of eyes bore into Ingrid. Their gazes pierce through her as her father speaks.

“I knew you'd make the right decision and get married,” he says, a smug grin curling onto his lips. A chill rushes through Ingrid like she's been stabbed in the chest.

*

Her father's words haunt her for the rest of the afternoon, lingering throughout the evening til the light of the setting sun. Ingrid recalls the lilt in Count Galatea's voice when he'd smirked at her, reducing Sylvain to a marriageable prospect, the last hope for their homeland's survival; she grits her teeth as she mops the floor of her father's study. This is what Sylvain fears most: to be reduced to a prize for his Crest or his family name, to be a cog in a twisted legacy he'd sworn to destroy.

Guilt pierces through her like a knife, and she grips the mop's handle so tightly it could break. Sylvain speaks up, nothing but perceptive. 

“You doing all right?”

Sylvain runs a finger along the spine of an old book and sets it on her father's desk. It's his turn to do the information-gathering while she cleans, and Ingrid's always wondered if Sylvain was touched by the Goddess upon birth, so effortlessly talented that he's better at her than both the aforementioned tasks. Sylvain leans against the table, propping his elbows on it, casual.

“You've been a little listless since you got back from lunch. I'd have expected the opposite considering how food always cheers you up.” He raises an eyebrow.

“I'm fine,” she mutters. Ingrid stabs the mop handle into her father's hardwood floor, rubbing it rapidly on a dark spot that won't fade. Sylvain sighs, picking himself up to stride towards Ingrid, leaning over and draping his arms around her neck. She sinks back into him, basking in the glow of his body warmth; the temperature in Galatea Manor isn't particularly well-regulated, and she's fortunate to be dating a walking human fireplace. 

She's struck, suddenly, by how he seems so much smaller than she's used to now he's not clad head-to-toe in armor. He's always been a captivating presence, radiant and charming and larger than life, but when Sylvain's wrapped around her like this he feels so much more human. She wonders how many people have been taken by the concept of Sylvain as opposed to Sylvain himself, the idea of a captivating Casanova that they could reign in and tame. Ingrid's known him long enough to know better: Sylvain in concept is pretty overrated.

It's the real Sylvain who she loves, the man who rests his chin on her head when she's fretting and who just _knows_ when tears are starting to spring to her eyes. Ingrid has no delusions about Sylvain's character; when he'd first started courting her she'd had him run around in circles to prove his true intentions. But she's known him for long enough to tell when he's being sincere despite his posturing, to feel safe melting deeper into his arms when he coos, “I can read your mind, you know. Something's wrong. You know you can tell me, right.”

For someone whose public persona revolves around flirtations and frivolities, Sylvain can be shockingly perceptive. The tension in her shoulders eases slightly, and Ingrid lets out a resigned sigh. “What else would it be?” she grumbles. “It's my father.”

“Ah,” Sylvain says, his voice taking on a darker lilt. He wraps his hands around Ingrid's, and she brushes her fingers against the rough skin and burn scars. “What is it this time?”

Ingrid bites the inside of her mouth. The idea of repeating her earlier thoughts to Sylvain crosses her mind, but Ingrid shoves the notion away-- Sylvain's incredibly sharp. He knows he's got a role to play on Galatea's grand stage, and he's delivering a performance that's left her family star-struck. So she shares the words that sent her down this spiral.

“My father's delighted that I decided to get married instead of becoming a knight. I didn't know what to say in response. It feels like...” Somehow, it feels petty to say that she feels like her father won in the end. Her destiny can't be reduced to a game of chance, a joust where the end results are boiled down to victory or defeat. Yet she can't help but wonder if she and Sylvain have been torn down to mere pawns in Faerghus' machinations. They might have pushed back against the Adrestian Empire and fought for their country's freedom and pride, but-- Ingrid is choked with pure terror at the realization, feels a punch to the gut far worse than any she's sustained during training-- perhaps they've fixed nothing at all. Sylvain leans down and presses a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Shocker, Count Galatea. Ingrid gets to do whatever she wants once we’re married. You could go run off to be a knight whenever you want. And if your father’s got something to say about it, he can take it up with me.”

“You know that's not why I didn’t become a knight, Sylvain,” Ingrid says, shaking her head. "This country... The systems it's built on, they're diseased. We're diseased for having grown up here. Not just the famine, but the Crest system. Relations with Sreng. How people-- how _I_ once felt about Duscur.” Ingrid tears herself from Sylvain's grip and turns around to trail a hand against his cheek, rubbing her fingertips against the first hints of stubble. A tense, sour feeling springs to the back of her nose, and then her eyes. Ingrid squeezes them shut. She should be too mature for tears. “You showed me all this, and I want to fix this with you. Call me selfish, but I just wish I could do it all without being reduced to Margravine.”

“I’ll make sure you get credit, you know that right? I won’t let people see something you’ve done and put my name behind it.”

“What of how we’re perceived in the streets? In court at Fhirdiad? At the end of the day what I do, where I go, what I choose... I’ll always need someone's permission. Growing up it was my father. When we get married, people will look at me and see you instead. See your choice in a lover, your choice in a wife. Growing up, I was Ingrid Galatea, a name I inherited from my father and then his father before him. We joke about combining last names but once we're married I'll take a name I adopted from you. Will I never get to stand as myself? As Ingrid?”

“Hey,” Sylvain says, taking both Ingrid's hands in his. “I wasn’t actually kidding about the last names thing. Our family’s legacies could burn for all I care. We can be Sylvain and Ingrid Gautlatea. Galatier. A middle finger to both your old man and mine, whatever you'd like.”

Her father wouldn't approve of how loudly Ingrid snorts, but she can't bring herself to care. “That sounds better than Galatea-Gautier. But that's not really the point--”

“It could be a lot worse. Imagine being Fraldarddyd.”

Ingrid groans, though she can't hide her rapidly-growing grin. “Sylvain.”

“I know,” Sylvain says. His smile is a little hopeful, a little sad, and while it creates genuine crinkles around his eyes it's hard to mask the fog of resentment that clouds them. She can't help but wonder what's really running through his mind when he lifts Ingrid's hands to his chest, but that's the thing about Sylvain: within him there's always been an undercurrent of something she can't quite place, a force that's dark and powerful and revolutionary all at once. “But I for one am glad you’re here with me. Gotta start somewhere with systemic change. At least we’re in a position to help, y’know? Dimitri’s a good guy, he just needs some good court advisors.”

He winks, and in the span of half a second Ingrid feels the tumbling, tumultuous warmth of falling in love with Sylvain all over again. 

“You’re right,” Ingrid nods. “I know you are... We’re in a very, very privileged position. There are more unfortunate people who we can help. It just all feels so daunting sometimes, but hopefully we can take steps to improve things. For the people, and for us.” 

Sylvain leans down to press a soft kiss on her lips. He bumps his nose against hers, and she can feel his warm breath on her skin as he speaks.

“Someday, it’ll be your and my world, not our parents’. We'll change the system when we're in power, okay? You and me, together.”

*

Reform begins from the ground up. Ingrid's used to spending her entire day training, riding her pegasus and spinning her lance. Farming drains her in a completely different way; there's an undeniable monotony that comes with sowing every seed and watering every crop, with no real challenge or immediately achievable end goal that she can reach. Her back and neck are throbbing after a whole day under the scorching sun and her joints feel like they're being ripped from her body, but Ingrid somehow manages to squeeze out a smile.

Sylvain leans back against the tool shed, chatting with some farmers like he's known them his entire life. Somehow, he still manages to be handsome when he's clad in a loose peasant's shirt and burlap pants, wiping drops of sweat away with his forearm. An older, hunchbacked man named Albert grunts about Sylvain being a noble brat, and Sylvain just laughs in response.

“You aren't wrong on that count. That's why Ingrid and I are going to start working in the fields with you guys. Once we've got some experience on the ground, it’ll help us work out better irrigation systems, see what we can bring in from Gautier. Hope we end up being more help than harm.”

Albert clicks his tongue and turns away, but the rest of the farmers nod and mutter in agreement. A middle-aged lady who'd introduced herself as Ysolde earlier hands Ingrid a flask of water, and she chugs it down, cherishing the cool sensation of the liquid dripping down her neck and throat. She sets the flask on a nearby table.

“Thank you,” she says. Ysolde nods.

“The Gautier boy's very charming, isn't he?”

Ingrid watches as one man slings his arm around Sylvain's shoulder, and another one grabs the towel off his own back to hand him. Sylvain lifts both his hands, saying something about how the farmer should keep his towel for himself, and the man laughs, telling Sylvain he “doesn’t have to be so kind.” Ingrid suspects that Sylvain’s aversion to grime likely overrides whatever charitable instincts might be within him. She turns back to face Ysolde, a small smile curling on her lips. 

“He certainly is.” Ingrid does her best to keep her voice level. She has to admit that Sylvain’s playing the part of a bumbling noble all too well, considering how he’d whined to her about having to go into the fields last night, groaning about being in the hot sun and getting covered in dirt. It might have been Sylvain’s idea to try and get some hands-on experience in the fields to build rapport with her people, but it certainly hadn’t stopped him from moaning about it for hours on end. Ingrid had tried to silence him by hitting him repeatedly with her pillow. It hadn’t succeeded, but no attempt to keep Sylvain quiet ever would. 

Ysolde nods solemnly, taking a drink of water from her flask. “A little too charming, I would say. Bet that’s gotten him in trouble. I’d tell you to be careful, but he looks at you like you’re his entire world.”

Ingrid flushes, and this time she can’t blame it on the burning heat. “Thank you. I’ve been friends with Sylvain my whole life. He means a lot to me.”

“I know,” Ysolde says, and mischief dances in her warm brown eyes. “Just don’t spend too much time cleaning up after boys like him, you know? You seem like the responsible type. Sylvain’s a trailblazer. But you need a spark to start a fire, and I’d daresay you’re his flint. He’d be nowhere without you. Don’t forget that, and don’t let his light burn your own out.”

Ingrid’s lips part to say something, but she isn’t able to formulate a response before she hears a raucous laugh. She looks up to see Sylvain lounging in a wicker chair, holding a hand of cards close to his face; he squints at them before sighing and setting them on the table. The woman next to him beams, scooping a pile of gold into her pocket. Sylvain walks up to Ingrid and places a hand on her shoulder. 

“Hey Ingrid,” Sylvain says. “We should get going soon. Your father will fistfight me if we aren’t home in time for dinner.”

Ingrid laughs weakly, passing Ysolde’s spare flask to her before waving the farmers goodbye. “Thank you for having both of us,” she says. “We appreciate it very much, and hope to learn plenty from you.”

“With some luck, Ingrid and I will be able to work something out,” Sylvain says. “No promises, but hopefully the feast this year will be more bountiful than the last.”

The farmers send Ingrid and Sylvain off with loud cheers, hooting and hollering with shouts of “Come back soon.” Now her smile widens a little; it’s nice for their work to be acknowledged like this, even if it’s just the beginning of a long, long road. Sylvain slides his arm into Ingrid’s, lacing their fingers together. She turns towards him, raising her brow cheekily.

“I always knew you had it in you. Where was this motivation when we were young?”

“Wasted on chasing after people who weren’t you.” He frowns, leaning in closer to speak with Ingrid. “You doing all right? You’ve been acting kind of weird since we got back here.”

“I...”

Ingrid thinks of how Sylvain had cradled her in the library. How warm and gentle he’d been, how his eyes had clouded with concern when he spoke. How he’d held her in his arms and promised that they’d make things better for her, for him, for everyone. The ideas, the comfort, the big plans had all spouted from Sylvain, and when he’d addressed the farmers he’d been bright, radiating light. 

Yet she’d been the one to walk him through Galatea’s farm maps, had chided him to go to bed. Ingrid had drawn up a schedule of which farms they’d visit and when, while Sylvain pored over stacks of books, deep in research. She’d been the one to wake up first this morning and shake Sylvain awake, and while Sylvain was still fumbling with his rake in the fields she’d already started sowing rows of seeds into the dirt. He’s always been an ideas person, but he’s never been great at laying down the groundwork. This is what she stayed for; for progress, no matter how slow. 

She just needs to keep that in sight. Until then, she’ll have to deal with the grind and the toil. Ingrid bumps her shoulder against Sylvain’s. 

“I think I’ll be fine.”

*

Ingrid’s curled into a ball under thin sheets, waiting for sleep to wash over her. She’s been stricken with insomnia since the onset of the war, and while it had abated over the last few weeks it seems to have once again reared its ugly head. She blinks into the night, shifting uncomfortably on her sheets while Sylvain is pressed up against her back.

Part of her training routine had once been to tire herself out so much that she could scarcely stay awake at night, but there’s no war on the horizon, no cause to fight for any more. She’s mostly left doing practice drills with Sylvain in the courtyard as a “just-in-case”, but Ingrid would rather that it was “never again.” When they’d first returned, the initial exhaustion from travel and farming had been enough to send her to dreamland, but Ingrid’s body now demands more stimulus, more fatigue than what peacetime can offer. So she’s left staring into the darkness, wondering if Sylvain will stir if she gets up to use the bathroom, or to get a glass of water. He’s not the soundest of sleepers, and for once he’s breathing peacefully, his chest rising and falling in slumber. 

Ingrid sighs, unfurling herself so she’s lying flat on her stomach. The faintest hint of moonlight pours in through the window, just barely enough for her to make out the individual planks on her wooden ceiling. She wonders if her home is strong enough to weather a storm, and is struck with how fortunate she is that the worst of the battles never touched Galatea; they would have been razed to the ground.

Next to her she feels motion, a shift. Sylvain’s eyes flutter open to meet Ingrid’s, pools of warm amber gazing into hers, holding a softness she knows is saved for her and her alone. She swallows the lump in her throat, trying to suppress the guilt bubbling in her chest. 

“Did I-- did I wake you?”

“Maybe,” Sylvain says as he sits up in the bed, drumming his fingers on the blanket. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much.” It’s only then when Ingrid remembers what a great actor Sylvain is: he could have been faking sleep the entire time and she would have never known. She’s too exhausted to give him a lecture on honesty. More than anything else, she knows she can’t stop Sylvain from lying out of concern. She sighs.

“You should sleep, Sylvain.”

“Nuh-huh, too late. I’m already up. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Will you tell me if you were really asleep?”

Silence rests between them for a while, so loud it drowns any thoughts out. Ingrid knows this is a test of wills; the first one to budge is the first one to lose. Fortunately, she’s nothing if not stubborn. A few minutes pass and Sylvain lets out a defeated groan.

“Fine. You got me there. Yeah, I was awake. I didn’t want to worry you since you’ve been sleeping so well since we got back, but I figured I’d show myself since you were still up anyway. Is it good old regular insomnia, or a new and exciting affliction I should know about?”

“Same old, same old,” Ingrid says. “I was hoping it would be behind me, and yet...”

Sylvain shakes his head. “Somehow, I’ve got a feeling it’ll take us a while to cast off the scars of war. Though I’ve got an idea. How do you feel about slacking off tomorrow?”

Ingrid’s eyes widen. “We’ve got so much more to do. Research to dig into, bills to draft about Crests...”

“We spent all of yesterday and the day before reading the Duscur Reparations Directive. If I need to copyedit Dimitri’s writing again tomorrow I’m going to lose my mind. School was six years ago, and he still writes like he’s trying to fluff an essay up with as many big words as he can find.” Sylvain sticks out his tongue, pretending to gag, and Ingrid can’t help but laugh despite herself. 

“Sylvain!” 

“You know I’m not wrong. Besides, we’ve been working so hard for the last couple of weeks. I think we deserve a day to cut loose and have fun. Come on, Ingrid,” he says, grabbing her hands, “We can’t sleep, and we’ve been working hard. There’s clearly a lot on both our minds. I think we deserve an adventure.”

She blinks back in disbelief. “Right now?”

“That works for me,” Sylvain says, shoving the blankets off himself and leaping out of bed. “Come on, get changed. The night won’t be young for much longer, and neither will we.”

Ingrid would be lying if she said her curiosity wasn’t piqued. She slips out of the oversized shirt she’d borrowed from Sylvain to sleep in, throwing on a flowy, loose top and a pair of stretchy pants. Her father had clicked his tongue with disapproval when he’d caught her wearing them around the house earlier that week; Sylvain had passive-aggressively commented on how handsome she looked in response. Ingrid has been loath to wear the trousers at home again since, but she figures that what Count Galatea doesn’t know won’t hurt him. 

Besides, she muses while stepping out into the crisp autumn air, Sylvain is correct. She does feel very handsome in this outfit, like a dashing pageboy in service to his lord, or an off-duty knight about to take a ride into the city with his beloved. She knows the reality of being at war is overrated. Ingrid’s learned this first hand, but she can’t help but occasionally fall back into her childhood fantasy of knighthood, of a world where her duty is her creed and she doesn’t have to answer to her father. She mounts her horse Sauce, waiting for Sylvain to scramble on behind her. Once he’s positioned, she tugs on Sauce’s reins, and off they ride into the starlit night. 

They’ve been riding around Galatea territory more times than she can count, the winding routes familiar as her own backyard. But it feels different when Sylvain’s pressed up against her, chin resting on Ingrid’s shoulder, breath warm against her neck, arms wrapped around her waist like she’s his lifeline. It would be arrogant to think that the Goddess designed them both to fit perfectly in the spaces between each other’s bodies, but sometimes Ingrid can’t help but wonder. 

“Where are we headed to?” Ingrid asks as they turn a familiar corner, exiting Galatea Manor and riding onto a trodden dirt path. It might have made more sense for Sylvain to lead the two of them to their surprise destination, but she’s always preferred to have a hand on the reins. Sylvain tends to ride a little too quickly for her liking, though she’s since learned to catch up to his pace. 

He presses a soft kiss to her neck. “Remember the old fort on Acadia Hill? I thought we could ride there for old times’ sake.”

Ingrid laughs. “You really, really want to make my parents angry.” The last time they’d been there was so long ago that Felix had been using a different name. Glenn had goaded Felix, Sylvain, Dimitri and Ingrid into sneaking out of Galatea Manor, trying to get them out of a heated debate on the exciting topic of agricultural taxes. The five of them had piled up on Sylvain and Ingrid’s horses, taking a joyride that had led them up the hill to what they’d declared their “secret base.” Ingrid recalled how furious her father had been when he’d followed the path of their horses’ tracks, only to find them playing as kings in the broken fortress. They’d all gotten a tongue-lashing from her father, but Ingrid recalls that evening as one of the brightest spots in her childhood, a turning point of hope before tragedy struck and she was never a child again.

Sylvain smirks. “I just like seeing how much I can get away with.” 

“You’re a man and you’re marrying me. They’re so pleased that they’d let you get away with murder if you wanted.” 

The words slip from her mouth before she has the chance to think them through, and Ingrid’s lips part in shock. She’s about to stutter an apology before Sylvain leans in with a sigh, giving her back a tight, warm squeeze. Sylvain edges closer to her, and his body heat is a radiant presence even in the cool, bitter night. 

“Welp, that joke landed pretty badly. Hate to say it, but you’re right.”

“Sylvain...” Ingrid’s voice trails off. “I’m sorry. That was callous of me.”

“Look,” Sylvain says, letting go of her waist, “You were just stating the truth.” He reaches out to wrap his hands around hers while she’s still holding the reins, brushing his thumbs against Ingrid’s, back and forth. They spend the rest of the ride in silence until Sauce reaches their destination and Ingrid dismounts her horse. She holds her palm out to Sylvain, outstretched.

“Do you need help getting off?”

Oh dear, there’s that salacious grin. Sylvain puts his hand in front of his mouth, gasping, scandalized. “Not in front of poor Saucey--”

“ _Sylvain._ ” 

He cackles. “Okay, fine. No, I don’t need the help, but I would appreciate it very much from a dashing knight such as Lady Ingrid.”

Two bad jokes in a row, and Sylvain still expects Ingrid to take his hand in hers and guide him to safety? He’s lucky he’s so charming. She groans but laces her fingers into his, and he leaps off Sauce’s back with a triumphant fistpump and a wet smooch on Ingrid’s lips. 

“Thank you, Ser Ingrid,” Sylvain says with a bow and a flourish, and she doesn’t want to admit just how much the last words fill her with childlike glee. He raises her held hand to his lips, giving it a chaste kiss. “Your kindness will never be forgotten.” 

“Stop blabbering and help me tie Sauce up.” 

“Okay, okay.” He’s still laughing, and Ingrid can’t help her readily-growing grin. Sylvain makes quick work of Sauce’s reins, securing him to a scrap of broken wall. He laces his fingers into Ingrid’s and they walk towards the battered fortress, hand-in-hand like they might have so long ago as children. It’s not quite as mysterious as she remembers; Ingrid isn’t quite certain if the walls have been worn down by time, or if the grass and vines have tangled past anything that could have once held majesty. Or perhaps it’s because the fortress no longer holds the allure of being forbidden ground. They’re adults now, adults who wield power, and Faerghus’ future is quite literally theirs to make or break. The thought is simultaneously liberating and terrifying all at once. 

It feels unjust to place the weight of a nation on the backs of a few privileged youth who were fortunate enough to be born into nobility. Yet that puts her in the best position to exact change on a local level, and she has the ties to affect the way the nation will be run. Hopefully they’ll be able to level the playing field for the common folk, to give them a voice where they once had none. Ingrid swallows the nerves bubbling in her chest. She plays with Sylvain’s fingers, trying to concentrate on every callus and burn mark on his palms. Sylvain turns to her.

“What’s on your mind?”

“This place... It’s changed.” Their childhood playground had already been overrun by foliage, but it now feels like a stone jungle they have to cut through. She kicks a piece of rubble with the side of her foot. 

“It has, hasn’t it?” Sylvain laughs. “Or maybe we’re the ones who’ve changed. Doesn’t it feel much smaller than it once did? But the fort’s not smaller. We’re just tall enough to spot the difference.”

“You’re right. Or maybe we’ve just seen and been inside bigger monuments to war.” The thought that a snake might leap out from the overgrown grass crosses Ingrid’s mind briefly, but she shoves it aside, far too exhilarated by the energy rushing through her veins, too drunk on the thrill to tell whether she’s filled with excitement or fear. Apparently, an intercontinental war hadn’t thrust her into enough life-threatening situations for a lifetime. She stops in her tracks, tilting her head upwards to stare into the sky. Ingrid squints.

“Sylvain... Remember what you said about the North Star never wavering? I can’t find it from here. Do you think you could spot it?”

“You can’t find the North Star?” Sylvain grins, leaning in to give Ingrid a quick kiss on the forehead, “That’s because she’s right here with me.”

A flush creeps onto Ingrid’s face, and she hopes that it’ll be obscured in the light of the waning crescent moon. Sylvain laughs, pressing another kiss to her nose now he’s realized he won: she’ll get him back for this later, though she can’t say she doesn’t enjoy the affection. 

“Thanks. That was... Very smooth. But really, where is it? I don’t see it.”

Sylvain squints into the sky, furrowing his brow and raising his free hand to his forehead. It takes him a moment before his eyes widen, and he points upwards, to the right.

“Right there. I’m pretty sure that’s it, anyway. The clouds are moving past Polaris, but you can see it peeking out if you’re quick enough. Blink and you’ll miss it, but she’s right there.” 

Ingrid turns to stare in Polaris’ direction. True enough, she catches a sliver of the star as a dark cloud brushes past it, barely enough to notice. She grips Sylvain’s hand, tighter.

“Do stars die, Sylvain? One day, will we look up there to find that the North Star has just... Gotten tired? Fizzled out?”

Ah, death. One of Sylvain’s favorite topics. He lowers his hand, turning to face her with a soft smile. 

“Well, everything dies. Someday, Polaris will too, though probably long after you and I are kicking it in the dirt. But a big, bright star like that isn’t going to die without creating a supernova. Once it’s burned for too long and runs out of fuel, it’ll collapse, and _boom_. There’ll be a giant explosion in the sky. So the answer is yes, but not before it creates one hell of an impact.”

Ingrid nods. “I see.” Somehow, she has a feeling that Sylvain might be projecting his hopes a little, but she shoves the thought away. She draws circles in the ground with her foot, lips pursed with thought. “I’ve just... There’s been a lot on my mind lately.”

“Yeah, same,” Sylvain sighs. “I’ll hear you out. Let’s find a place to sit and talk.” 

The two of them climb onto what must have once been a huge square pillar, settling on adjacent edges of the column, shoulders barely brushing against each other. Ingrid slips her hand out from Sylvain’s, lifting it to self-consciously toy with her split ends. She hadn’t bothered to do the back of her hair up in a braid for this excursion; it’s easy to forget sometimes how thick it is. Sylvain glances at her, expectant.

“You go.”

“Sylvain, I...” Ingrid places both her hands on her thighs. “I just wish I could do more for the people. And do it all faster, you know? It feels like I have to answer to everyone. The people. The farmers. The nobles. My father, my brothers, my friends. You. Glenn--”

The name feels foreign on her lips. Ingrid had thought herself done mourning him; she’d cut her hair off in a symbolic act of defiance, an announcement to the world that she was acting for _her_ , not for a memory of a boy that she’d been too young to truly get to know. She’d been proven terribly wrong months after when she caught a whiff of the kitchen’s meat stew, and it smelled just perfectly warm and spicy, just the way Glenn liked it; they’d once shared a huge bowl of the thick, cheesy dish after he’d come home from a day of training, soaked in rain, and she’d later wondered if they’d eat such lovely meals together, one day as husband and wife. Ingrid was reduced to a crying mess in her bedroom at the memory, bemoaning how she was having a breakdown over stew. Stew, of all things! Sylvain had been perfectly understanding, holding her and rubbing her back gently through the night, and when she’d woken up the next morning she’d found him still lying by her side. 

She’d been shoved into her engagement to Glenn, so much so that Ingrid will never know if she really did love him as anything more than a knightly ideal-- but it’s become easier to think of his memory with nostalgia rather than tears now she isn’t living in his shadow any more. She can wander around this battered fortress and feel her chest burst with warm fondness, have Dimitri and Sylvain joke about Glenn in casual conversation and not be shattered by soul-crushing despair, but she’s learned grief never truly goes away. Sometimes, Ingrid thinks of him when she sheathes her sword or smells fresh rain, and she’s crushed with sadness once again. She winces, lifting both her feet to sit cross-legged on the pilaster. 

“I just keep wondering if I can make all of you happy, all of you proud. I know you don’t believe in ghosts but... Sometimes I feel like Glenn’s watching me. He’d want me to be happy, right? So why do I feel like what’ll make me happy might not be what Glenn and I would have shared?” 

“In what sense?” 

“I don’t know. You’re out here trying to change things, trying to get me to make Faerghus better with you. Meanwhile Glenn would have been a knight. I’d have wanted to join him, but I’m not sure I would have in the end. Maybe if he hadn’t died I would be here by myself, doing things the way my father wants, waiting for Glenn to come back from the capital as my only source of joy... It’s hard to say.” Ingrid sighs. “There’s no real way of knowing, is there?”

“That won’t stop you from wondering, though. If it helps,” Sylvain says, reaching over to tuck a lock of Ingrid’s hair behind her ear, “I like you the way you are now. I hope you like you, too.”

Ingrid manages to muster a half-smile. “That’s rich, coming from you.” 

“Fair point.”

Despite her light, chiding tone, Ingrid doesn’t give Sylvain a real answer to his statement, and she knows her silence speaks volumes as its weight hangs between them. Sylvain edges closer towards Ingrid, resting his head on hers, and she gently places a hand on his.

“I’ve talked about myself now. It’s your turn to speak.”

“Me?” Sylvain sputters. “I... Ugh,” he groans, idly playing with her fingers. “It’s pretty dumb. I was going to talk to you about this tomorrow once we’d slept, but--”

“Just tell me now. Waiting’s just going to make us both nervous.”

“But we’re here on an adventure, Ingrid! Why would I ruin it with my inconsequential woes--”

“ _Sylvain._ ”

“Fine, fine. You got me. It’s kind of heavy, so prepare yourself.” Ingrid nods, tightening her grip on Sylvain’s hand; he’s shaking slightly now that he’s trying to be still. Sylvain closes his eyes, sucking in a deep breath before speaking.

“I might have to go back to Gautier for a few weeks.”

Ingrid feels her heart stop in her chest. 

“Ah.”

Homecoming should be a happy occasion, nerve wracking as her own was when she’d first returned to Galatea. Sylvain is different. Gautier Castle was where he endured years of abuse at his brother’s hands, and years of neglect when his parents turned a blind eye to Miklan’s actions in favor of the facade of normalcy. The scars from his childhood cut deeper than those they earned in a continental war. Ingrid doesn’t know the full extent of what Miklan did to Sylvain, but she suspects that he was a good part of why Sylvain allowed himself to flit from woman to man to any warm body who would lie with his, why he still gasps when someone grabs him by the scruff of his neck, why Sylvain still trembles when he speaks his brother’s name. 

The fingers of Sylvain’s free hand drum against the pillar, anxious. 

“Remember Charisse? The cook’s daughter? I still write to her and her girlfriend Lenore sometimes. Anyway, the other day she sent me a letter saying that she’d overheard my father talking to some stuffy guy with a veiny forehead and sunken eyes, agreeing to go back and reclaim more Srengi land... I figured that if anyone can persuade my dad not to go, it’s me.” He snorts, hollow. “The only issue is that it means actually being at home again.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Ingrid says. “I won’t let you go there alone--”

Sylvain shakes his head. 

“I thought about that. It would have been nice to have you there with me, but someone needs to stay here and oversee Galatea. The farmers can’t lose you for more than a couple of weeks. We’ve got to show them consistency. Commitment. Let them know we care.” He blows a strand of his bangs out of his face, and Ingrid feels her heart sink. Much as she hates to admit it, Sylvain is right; they’ve got to put themselves after the people they serve. 

Ingrid nods slowly, trying to hide the crushing pain that’s swelling in her chest. She can only imagine that Sylvain must feel this tenfold. Sylvain lets go of her hand, gently massaging his fingers. It’s easy for Ingrid to forget her own strength; she must have not realized how tightly she was holding him. 

“I understand,” she murmurs. “You’re correct, but I don’t like this one bit.” 

“I know it’s going to be hard, but Ingrid, you’re going to have to trust me on this, okay? I’ll write to you plenty. If you want I’ll tell you every thought that runs through my damn mind. Use my letters to you like a diary. Dear Ingrid, I almost got into a fist fight with my dad today--” 

“You don’t have to go that far. But letters would be nice,” Ingrid says. Sylvain gives her a thumbs-up.

“You got it. I’ll shower you in so many letters you’ll wish you’d never heard from me.” 

“That’s not going to happen,” Ingrid says. Now it’s her turn to lean in and press a tender kiss on Sylvain’s nose, then his lips. 

She pushes away the mental image of Sylvain stuck in his childhood bedroom, flooded with the ghosts of his past and the shadows of the boy he used to be. It’s quite the uncharitable thought, but she can’t help but wish sometimes that Margrave Gautier would just vanish into smoke. Sylvain takes both her hands in his.

They don’t notice the North Star receding into a dark cloud in the skyline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks j and rice for reading this through before i uploaded it. chapter 2 will likely be a couple of months, since i have other projects, but this is a story that's precious to me. 
> 
> find me on twitter at [@gautired](https://twitter.com/gautired/), and feel free to [retweet](https://twitter.com/gautired/status/1275948903246868480) this fic if you liked it!


	2. take the moon

The sun scorches her back so harshly, Ingrid fears it might burn through her. She crouches to grab her flask, doing her best to ignore the dull ache in her legs, and the subsequent pain that sears through her spine when she straightens out to sip her water. Noting the rows of unwatered crops, she feels her pockets fall heavy with the weight of unsown seeds. Ingrid clenches her teeth. 

Sunset will be upon them soon. She’s nowhere close to done with her share of work. Sylvain’s absence meant she had offered to take his portion of the labor, and while she’d hoped it would be manageable, the repetition of watering basil and plucking bush beans has taken a larger toll on her than she would've thought. Ingrid rubs the small of her back, wincing. Her eyes meet Ysolde’s in the distance. Ysolde marches over to Ingrid with a smile.

“Perhaps you took on too much?” she asks, placing a hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. Though Ysolde is slighter than Ingrid, she holds herself with a poise Ingrid can only hope to muster, her quiet presence radiating confidence and warmth. She shakes her head. 

“I-- I’ll be fine,” she sputters, knowing no, she won’t be fine at all. Ysolde shakes her head.

“You've been trained in the art of combat, not of the fields. I understand you and Sylvain wish to show us solidarity by aiding us, but consider that you might be more useful when it comes to systems, not the labor--”

“I want to help, though!” Ingrid exclaims, hands flying up to cover her mouth in shock. She’s been trained her whole life to observe decorum, and the old, less tired Ingrid would have never interrupted an elder like this. Ysolde just laughs, rubbing small circles into the knots in Ingrid’s back.

“Trust me, you’re helping plenty. We’re already looking forward to a more bountiful harvest this fall. I’d caution you to not place expectations on yourself you can’t reach; your presence here is for your education, not for your help. No one expects a star to shine unless it’s at night,” she says, leaning in to pet Ingrid’s cheek. “No one faults you for not being a natural.”

Ingrid mutters a soft “Sorry” underneath her breath, and Ysolde clicks her tongue.

“Don’t apologize. I’m not sure what you were thinking taking on the Gautier boy’s portion of the work. I’m certain he’d laugh at you if he knew.”

Ysolde's right about Sylvain, but Ingrid’s loath to admit it. She holds out her hand for Ingrid to pass a spare watering can, and Ingrid obliges, helplessness washing through her as she watches Ysolde get back to work. She must be twice her age, yet she travels with such nimble feet through the soil, practically flying through the fields like she’s on a pegasus. 

_What use am I then, if not for toil and travail?_ Ingrid wants to scream, but she’s been rude enough to poor Ysolde to last a lifetime. Hard work is all she has to show for herself, after all; Sylvain’s the one who knows anything about magic. He’d been researching use of water spells for irrigation before he was whisked away to Gautier. 

She thinks of Sylvain being forced to exchange pleasantries with his mother and made to grovel to his dad. Her blood turns to ice.

“I’ll be fine,” she mutters, knowing Sylvain must have it ten times worse. She appreciates his efforts at honesty in his letters, knowing that obfuscating his misery would make her worry more; it’s still difficult for her to bear the true weight of his sorrow. Each grievance about the Margrave’s ignorance must have been amplified in Sylvain’s childhood: abuses borne from maintaining the family image by sidestepping Miklan, or Sylvain’s frustration with Faerghan politics, only amplified by his inability to act. 

At least Sylvain holds power over his father now. Ingrid understands why Sylvain trained himself in the art of power dynamics, and how he learned to manipulate people with his words. 

Yet she can’t help but hope beyond hope she’ll return to Galatea Manor to a letter from her love. Sylvain’s letters have been a lifeline, and she's been saving them under his pillow, reading his looping handwriting over and over before she falls asleep. He spritzes each sheet of parchment with a heavy dose of his cologne. She’d roll her eyes at the courting ritual if her bed didn’t smell like him when she wakes up alone in the morning.

There is no letter when Ingrid trudges back home a failure.

Instead her parents wait for her at the dinner table, her portion of Airmid Goby skewers keeping warm under a metal dome. A growl emits from her father’s stomach while Ingrid says a silent prayer to the Goddess for the food, and a pang of guilt stabs her: he’d saved his portion for his perpetually hungry daughter, just like when she was a child. 

There’s no point pleading for him to take the food back. So Ingrid shows gratitude in the best way she knows— by tucking into the meal with gusto. She gushes about how delicious the barely-salted fish is, takes care to lick every bit of the bland meat off the bones, and shovels the rice into her mouth as if it tasted like stew and pork buns. A smile tugs on her father’s lips when Ingrid finishes the small side of beans. Perhaps she should lick the plate clean to fully show her appreciation. Count Galatea raises a brow.

“You’d better not eat like that in front of your future husband.”

Ingrid narrows her eyes. 

“Sylvain’s seen me eat like this for years. As a matter of fact, he finds it soothing.”

She speaks the words with a triumphant flair, only to immediately regret them. Her father knots his brow, and anger flashes in his forest-green eyes. Ingrid hurriedly stares down at her plate, feeling like she could throw her food right back up. 

Her mother says nothing when her father clears his throat.

“Is that so?” he says, and Ingrid’s stomach churns at the pregnant pause that follows. If only Sylvain were here to back her up, or if only she lived in a world where his approval wasn't necessary for her to stand up on her own. Ingrid swallows the lump in her throat.

“Yes,” she finally says, the syllable lame and listless in her mouth. Count Galatea drums his fingers on the dining table, allowing more silence to fall between them. It’s the memory of disquietude like this that makes Ingrid fear a life without joy and banter. She tenses, gripping her chair so tightly her knuckles whiten. Her father heaves a heavy sigh.

“I won’t speak up against Sylvain when you’re soon to be wed. But do know a good wife would never remain in her maiden home when her husband returns to his territory. I suppose it might be different since you both have Crests, but had you considered he might need your support--”

“Of course I have,” Ingrid spits. As if she doesn’t fret about Sylvain, all alone in Gautier with none of the family he’d found at Garreg Mach. As if she hasn’t spent sleepless nights tossing and turning, worrying about Sylvain’s feelings, Sylvain’s hurt, the thought of him spending every waking moment on edge, as though any of the lurking shadows in Gautier Castle could warp into a Demonic Beast and pounce. 

As if the idea for Ingrid to stay hadn’t been _Sylvain’s_. It was probably the right decision, since hard work and toil is all she’s worth compared to his endless wellspring of verve and bright ideas. She lacks the charisma to negotiate, and lacks the silver tongue needed to emulate his charm. She's at her best with her nose to the grindstone, but she can’t even do that right.

Yet it’s always about Sylvain, isn’t it? Funny how that happens even when she’s not cleaning his messes any more. 

She’s shaking. Ingrid barely can string together words in her incomprehensible rage, and her father clears his throat to get her attention.

“I’m glad you enjoyed dinner. Be certain to take care of your marriage, and your man. That’s the only advice I have for you.”

He gets up before Ingrid can get the last word. Her mother lingers for a few seconds, eyes locked on her daughter with a mixture of sympathy and hurt. She reaches into her pocket and slides a letter towards Ingrid.

“The mail courier came by on his horse today with a letter from Annette. I hope that’ll brighten your day.” 

She joins her husband, closing the door behind her. Ingrid tears open the envelope.

_Hey Ingrid,_

_It’s been so long! How are you doing? I finally had the time to sit down and read ‘Atoll’ like you recommended, and it was SO good. The fantasy contraption the characters used to get across Faerghus was so much fun. I think I laughed and cried and laughed some more the entire way. Do you know of any more books by the same author? I’d love to read some more._

_Sorry it took me so long to write to you, by the way. I sent you a letter in Fhirdiad and His Majesty-- I mean, DIMITRI sent it back. He said that I could reach you here instead. I didn’t know that you could be a knight out of your own territory? I always assumed that you’d want to serve the king directly. Goes to show how much I know._

Ingrid inhales, crisp and sharp. Tears well in her eyes, dripping onto the parchment. She hasn’t told Annette yet, has she? Because she should've been a knight. She was _made_ to be a knight. She’d be so much happier serving Dimitri instead of trying to achieve some insurmountable, unachievable dream--

_Hilda sends love and kisses!!! We’re setting up her artisan school in Goneril, and maybe I’ll help her teach. I always reckoned I’d become a professor at the School of Sorcery, but it might be nice to teach people the art of making things instead of destroying them. Come visit both of us soon._

_Love, your friend,  
Annette_

*

Yuri Leclerc is five feet and seven inches’ of human dynamite. He shows up on Galatea Manor’s doorstep in mid-autumn two weeks later, unannounced, waltzing into Ingrid’s living room like he belongs there.

“I brought you curry puffs,” Yuri smirks, gesturing to the basket in the crook of his right arm. The pockets of fried dough have likely gotten cold during Yuri’s journey, but Ingrid can still smell the scent of cumin and ground ginger wafting in the air between them. She gasps in surprise when he throws his arms around her, even if her gaze keeps darting to the pastries peeking through the basket’s cheesecloth. He lets go when her stomach growls. 

“You haven’t changed in the slightest,” Yuri grins. Count Galatea would never approve of how tightly Ingrid had hugged a man she wasn’t engaged to, but there are plenty of things about Yuri her father would take offense to. She notes his immaculate lavender eyeshadow and the tint of rouge on his cheeks. Never in her life has she attempted to make herself up the way Yuri does every morning, and Ingrid knows it’s wrong, but the thought of her father sneering makes her flinch with concern. Yuri pulls her into another hug and whispers in her ear.

“Sylvain sent me to save you.”

“I don’t need _saving_ ,” Ingrid insists, but Yuri gestures to the curry puffs and Ingrid’s stomach emits a louder, pathetic growl. Yuri laughs, kicking off his boots.

“Hmm. You sure? This food isn’t going to eat itself.”

“Fine,” Ingrid grumbles, sprinting towards the dining room. She digs in as soon as she and Yuri are seated. A hit of chili explodes through her tongue, and tears spring from her eyes. “This-- this isn’t all that spicy,” she whimpers, chewing and swallowing the rest of the puff. It’s delicious, but her spice tolerance must have lowered since she left Garreg Mach. Yuri, of course, laughs at her.

“You don’t look certain about that.” He pops half his curry puff into his mouth gloatingly, and Ingrid would make a rude gesture had she not been raised polite. 

She shouldn’t be surprised when her father smiles at Yuri and greets him with a warm welcome. Now that Sylvain’s left, Ingrid almost forgot how well her father keeps up appearances, how capably he hides judgmental thoughts behind genial words. While she doesn’t know Yuri as well as Sylvain, she suspects he senses that falseness. There’s something about how Yuri’s voice pitches higher, and the simpering laugh that escapes his throat, that makes her hair stand on end.

“He'll be staying the next two weeks,” Ingrid announces to her father, like she’d planned this all along. Yuri meets her small rebellion with a grin.

It's nice to be around a trusted friend again. Yuri volunteers to poke holes in Sylvain’s magic research and, when Ingrid isn't out in the fields, the two of them spend afternoons poring through books in the library. Yuri's just as smart as Sylvain, needle-keen while Sylvain’s razor-sharp. He gets to work compiling a list of alternative angles for Sylvain to explore when he gets home, and Ingrid regales Sylvain with them in her next letter. Sylvain’s laugh lingers in her mind when she scrawls, “Thank you for the food delivery”, and she pictures his small, lopsided smile when she adds, “It’s nice you sent Yuri along as well.” 

Having Yuri around makes her miss Sylvain even more, but it’s no longer a painful ache or a dull white noise that ebbs right before sleep. Rather, she feels a childlike yearning when Yuri makes an astute observation, or a strange twist in her chest when he winks at strangers in the market. Calling him a pale shadow of Sylvain would be doing Yuri a disservice, not when Yuri is so clever and vibrant in his own way. Nevertheless, his presence makes her eager for the day when she can hold Sylvain in her arms once more. At least she’s now filled with anticipation instead of a hollow void.

It's the happiest she's been in the absence of Sylvain. Yuri’s presence at the dinner table shields her from her father’s vocal judgment, even if Count Galatea’s eyebrows arch higher and higher as Yuri cakes on more eyeshadow every evening. One night, Yuri sashays down in the teal dress Ingrid never wore to her graduation, and Count Galatea goes so red Ingrid fears he might burst. Out of the corner of her eye, Ingrid spies her mother laughing.

Somehow, she suspects her mother is mocking Count Galatea, not Yuri, filling Ingrid with a faith in her she thought long gone. Yuri offers to handle washing duty. He raises a teasing brow when Ingrid stays back to help.

“Your father’s very pleasant to me even if my very presence offends him.”

Ingrid scrubs at her plate faster. 

“It doesn’t,” she spitters. Yuri scoffs, submerging a stubborn dish. It reminds her of how Sylvain washes dishes like an interrogating spymaster , bobbing them up and down and scrubbing with great vengeance. It’s almost unsettling.

Yuri places a mug on the drying rack. 

“You’re a terrible liar. Come on, you’ve enjoyed helping me mess with your dad.”

Ingrid can’t disagree. Perhaps some of Sylvain’s cheeky streak has rubbed off after all, and a small smile tugs at her lips at the thought. Yuri matches her smile. 

“That’s the honest Ingrid I like. You don’t have to be diplomatic with me, you know. Spit it out. You’ve got lots to say about your father, don’t you?”

Ingrid knits her brow. “It wouldn’t be appropriate--”

“That’s fair. But you can confide in people who aren’t your fiancé, you know. It helps to have a support system that lives outside your home.”

Ingrid is met with a strange pang of nostalgia. She doesn’t miss the panic or the looming spectre of death, but she sometimes yearns for the camaraderie of war, for the knowledge her every action leads to a better, rosier future. It didn’t matter that she might not be there to see it. She can’t help but feel terribly lonely in this brighter tomorrow: leagues and letters away from her fiancé and friends. Yuri’s offering a lifeline, and her eyes swell with tears when she realizes she has to take it.

“Annette wrote to me,” she whispers, so softly it betrays her shame. “I don’t know how to respond.” 

Ingrid knows she should write back and tell Annette the truth. She knows Annette will be nothing but understanding. Annette will respond with joy in Ingrid’s choices, respect for Ingrid’s resolve, and wild curiosity about Ingrid’s future. But it’s one thing to let go of a lifelong dream; it’s another to put it to words, to memorialize it with the permanency of pen and ink and parchment. Ingrid spent her whole life declaring she was chasing knighthood at any cost, and she can’t help but feel a pang of embarrassment at the thought of suddenly giving that up. 

_This is for a better tomorrow_ , Ingrid repeats in her head, despite the sting of knowing her people’s future means sacrificing her own.

Yuri raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

“I take it the knighthood thing didn’t shake out for you. Was it your father? Was it your mother? Was it _Sylvain_?”

“No,” Ingrid spits. “Absolutely not.” She squeezes her eyes shut. Sylvain asked her over and over if she was certain before they rode home from Fhirdiad, declaring that he’d fight Count Galatea, fight the system, fight _anyone_ if it meant Ingrid could fulfill her childhood dream. It was Ingrid who insisted she return to Galatea with him. She saw enough suffering during wartime, she’d said. She’d rather use her Crest and title to fix the broken system, so their children wouldn’t be born into it. But every day spent at Galatea Manor shakes her will a little more, and she can’t pretend she hasn’t daydreamed about a different life, where she’d still be in Fhirdiad, flying free on a pegasus and serving her king. 

Yuri nods. 

“That’s good. I like Sylvain. Wouldn’t want him to disappear mysteriously in the night.” He says it so casually Ingrid’s skin crawls. Her eyes shoot open wide.

“Yuri--”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he says, his crooked smile implying he isn't joking at all. Ingrid sighs, leaning back against the sink. 

She hangs her head and admits the truth.

“It was me.”

It’s Yuri’s turn to be shocked, stumbling backwards and lips parting in surprise. Tears swell in her eyes as she tells Yuri the full story. How she was only born because her parents desperately needed an heir with a Crest, and how she had been primed her whole life to save Galatea from imminent poverty. How she was told marriage was her end goal, and how her idealized knighthood was her way to escape that. She talked about what she’d seen, what they’d _both_ seen at war. Of the atrocities she committed, of the blood on her hands. Of how Sylvain held her as she sobbed every night, promising to shape a world where this would never happen again. 

She tells Yuri how Sylvain charted out his plans to change the flawed structures causing their troubles, of his ideals for growth, for education, and for building a world where Crests weren't needed. Of how she woke up one day and realized she’d help more people by tearing Faerghus down from the ground up, by being the flint sparking revolution. Ingrid was cursed with the blessing of a Crest. That’s how she decided her duty was not to die for her country, but to live for it instead. 

Yuri responds with a single word.

“Wow.”

He blinks, once, twice, and Ingrid’s heart races with panic. Did she mess up? Did she stumble in her ignorance? Would Yuri think less of her for giving up her dream? Yuri’s never lost for words; in that regard, he’s as canny as Sylvain is. It’s novel and scary to watch him struggle to find the right thing to say. Finally, he settles on a warm smile.

“I never knew you had it in you.”

Ingrid laughs weakly. 

“Neither did I,” she mutters. The knot in her stomach unravels with relief. 

She turns back to the dishes, scrubbing them with fervor. Yuri gently places a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m proud. You did a really difficult thing. Good for you.”

“I... _I_ don’t know if I’m proud of me,” Ingrid says, and lets out a little sob. Tears begin to stream down her face. She lets out a half-hearted laugh as she throws off her rubber gloves, raising a hand to her eyes to wipe her tears away, but she’s crying now, in front of someone who’s never seen her this vulnerable, in front of someone who once must have thought her too mature to behave like this. “Everyone expected me to be a knight. I did too. This is the right thing to do, but I just feel so hopeless-- I don’t really know if I’m helping anyone, you know?”

Yuri says nothing but begins rubbing circles into Ingrid’s back. She chokes out another sob.

“It’s just-- Sylvain’s the one who’s good with people. Sylvain’s smart enough to know what needs to change. And I know it’s terribly selfish to make this about me, but I can’t help but feel--” the words hitch in her throat, “I feel like an embellishment. Something trivial, like an accessory, or makeup.” Yuri snorts, and Ingrid’s jaw drops with horror, “Goddess, no, sorry, I didn’t mean to offend--” 

“None taken,” Yuri says. He’s been rubbing her back for a while now; Ingrid's heart swells with warmth when she realizes that twice now he’s willingly touched her. He greeted her with a hug when he first arrived; the Yuri from their army days never would have done so. She recalls how Ashe slung his arm around Yuri’s waist at Dimitri’s coronation, and perhaps she isn’t the only one who had a change of heart since the war’s end. Ingrid sniffs again.

“I’m supposed to build a better future, and I know I made the right choice. So why do I feel so helpless?”

“Have you thought about playing to your strengths?”

Ingrid frowns. “What do you mean?” Her strengths, after all, lie in combat and carnage. There’s no place for someone like her in the world Sylvain wants to build. 

“I bet Sylvain would've given up the fields if it weren’t for you. Too much dirt and grime for a prim and proper noble. In fact,” Yuri says, stroking his chin, “I’d wager you’re the reason he gets up every morning. He wants to be better for your sake. For you.”

Ingrid cocks her head in confusion. Yuri smirks.

“You’re the one who decided to come back to Galatea, but you’ve been living in Sylvain’s shadow even if you’ve taken up his cause. But you’re in a position where you get to roll the dice. What’s reform look like to you? I bet Sylvain would say the same if you told him, but I’m willing to bet you haven’t, since you think these thoughts aren’t noble.” 

Ingrid really, really hates it when Yuri is right.

“So here’s a question for you, Ingrid,” Yuri says. He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “What changes do you want to see? What’s your vision of a better Faerghus, and how do you get there?”

“Thank you,” Ingrid says. She wipes tears from her eyes. “Thank you, thank you. I’m sorry to have burdened you with all this--”

Yuri grins with the conviction of a man who knows he’s right. 

“In the meantime, I’d write back to Annette if I were you. She must be worried sick.”

*

_Dear Annette,_

_I’m pleased to hear that you’re settling in with Hilda. I was worried that you being so far away would mean that we might lose contact, but it was I who sent a delayed reply. I’m really sorry for that. It’s just been very busy over here. Yuri stayed for a few weeks, and he brought me the most delicious pastries with curry and potatoes inside. Oh, my mouth is watering just thinking of them!_

_This might come as a great surprise to you, but I’ve changed my mind about becoming a knight. The people of Galatea need me, and I believe that I can help more people if I stay here, in Galatea. You know of the famine and poverty that I endured as a child. While I do not believe myself special because of my Crest, Faerghus’s systems mean that I am placed in a position to enact change. I would like to do so peacefully, after all the war and fighting we went through. I’m sure you relate, especially given what you told me about Hilda’s school._

_I would love to visit soon, though I’m not sure when that would be! I do miss you, though. Both of you are always welcome to come and stay with me in Galatea._

_Best wishes,  
Ingrid_

*

The knights of the Galatea Pegasus Company shuffle into her parlor. They seem so much smaller when they’re not clad in armor, and many of them are skittish, fidgeting as they take their seats on the dirty velvet cushions. Ingrid fusses over each and every one of them as they enter, offering tea and coffee and slices of homemade chocolate cake, baked from a simple and inexpensive recipe Yuri taught her before he took his leave. Ingrid clears her throat after closing the door behind the last of her former knights.

“E- excuse me.” 

Twenty pairs of eyes turn to face her, and Ingrid smiles nervously at the soldiers of her former battalion. Even if she’s written some of them to check in since returning from Fhirdiad, this is the first time they've all been in one place since the war’s end. Addressing her battalion in the relative safety of her home feels nostalgic and unfamiliar all at once. She takes a deep breath. 

“How have all of you been?”

Sierra, whose tongue is as sharp as her hair is red, raises a quizzical eyebrow.

“Pretty fucked up after years of fighting and war.”

Kelle, who’s sitting next to her, heaves a soft sigh. The burn mark creeping up her chin is from a Bolganone spell meant for Ingrid instead. Her voice is soft but firm. 

“Looks like we aren’t pulling punches. Honestly, I'd say the same. It feels like we’ve been training for a great war our entire lives. Not that I _want_ to go back to fighting, but what do we do now?”

The room is immediately abuzz with similar sentiments. One of her soldiers talks about how hard it is to return to her family, who expect her to work on the farm. Another speaks of how their father wants them to settle down and marry a man, when they’d rather soar through the skies. The former Galatea Pegasus Company commiserate about the trials of peacetime when they’ve been shaped in the mold of war, mourning the loss of sisterhood that daily life at Galatea can’t hope to replicate. 

Ingrid's chest simultaneously fills with warmth and sorrow. She’s aware she grew up in relative privilege, but despite that, they have more in common than most. It’s strange to occasionally long for strife, but there's some comfort knowing she isn’t alone in missing her freedom, or in the guilt associated with that longing. She allows her soldiers command of the room, waiting for them all to vent, scream, to feel heard before she proposes her idea. Ingrid taps her fingers on the coffee table.

“I... I had a thought. It’s a little experimental, but we could feed more mouths in Galatea if we get this right. And it’d give us a way to work together again.” 

Sierra frowns, but leans in closer to hear Ingrid out. Most of the former battalion does the same. Relief washes through her, and she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. A voice in her mind whispers _what would Sylvain do here_ , but she pushes it away. More importantly, what would Ingrid say? How would the best version of Ingrid express her far-fetched idea to a potentially skeptical crowd?

By stating it as bluntly as possible.

“I’d like to establish a Pegasus postal service out of Galatea.”

She scans the room. A couple of soldiers near the back purse their lips with doubt, but Kelle tilts her jaw towards Ingrid, in what she hopes is interest. Two dark-haired sisters, Mara and Lune, exchange curious glances before turning back to Ingrid with wide eyes. They’re giving her the floor: this is her chance to speak.

“We have approval from the King for a year’s funding. I’ve established two initial routes as a trial run,” she says, voice surprisingly resolute. She picks up a map of Faerghus from where it rests on the table, handing it to Sierra for her to pass around. On it Ingrid has charted locations where a Pegasus rider could stop and rest in the middle of their mail journey, marking the safe houses in bright orange ink. 

These are routes through lands once foreign to her, but now are places where she has friends: a haven by Charon where Lady Cassandra once resided, and shelter in Duscur by Mercedes and Dedue. There’s the promise of free room and board at Yuri’s inn at Gaspard, rumored to be funded by Lord Ashe Ubert himself. Ingrid hoped while drafting these routes that her former battalion might find warmth in these waypoints, might know solace in their new travels they were denied in war. 

Silence fills the room, save for the rustling of parchment. Her soldiers pass the map around, and how Ingrid wishes she were better at reading expressions. She bites her cheek, praying she hasn’t betrayed her apprehension.

“Many of us still train in private, in case war strikes again. But our Pegasi haven’t been able to stretch their wings in months, and I thought it might be an opportunity to put an expensive resource to good use,” Ingrid murmurs. It’s difficult to let go of the notion their country might be swept up in battle at any moment. She knows it would be arrogant to stop practicing with a lance, but perhaps they don’t have to constantly glance over their shoulders, wondering which morning might be their last. “Pegasi travel faster than horses. This service could be used for important telegrams, urgent mail, or even if someone just desperately wants to reach a loved one. And you’ll fly further this way. You don’t... We don’t need to be so armored any more.” 

She scans her audience once more. Now that most have been able to peruse the map, they’re staring back at her, wide-eyed; Mara scrambles to their feet, clapping their hands in approval. Someone yells “That sounds amazing,” from the back, and relief washes through Ingrid Her battalion begins chattering with excitement. Ingrid’s heart soars with pride, faster and higher than any Pegasus , and for a moment she feels like she could touch the stars. She rummages through the papers on the table. 

“I’ve got more,” Ingrid says, grabbing her notes on a potential budget, as well as her attempts to sketch regalia and a headdress for the Pegasi. She hadn’t gotten very far without Sylvain’s keen artistic eye, but perhaps the Galatea Pegasus Company might have some input. Her former battalion yell design suggestions back to her and enthusiastically point out flaws in her accounting and plans; Ingrid hasn’t felt this form of camaraderie in far too long. A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. 

“Meet me near the town stables tomorrow if you’re interested. We’ve got plenty of work to do.”

*

_My dear Ingrid, the light in my eyes, the love of my life,_

_Post by Pegasus? You absolute genius. I thought I was dreaming when I saw the postal carrier get off her steed, though my dreams about Pegasi usually involve you, me, and a lot less clothing. Cinder’s windswept hair and dazzling smile reminded me of yours, though no person in the world could hope to shine quite as brightly. I invited her in for tea before she finished her mail route, and she told me you’ve been running the Galatea Pegasus Post. She says you’re a great boss, though it could just be her trying to butter you up. Either way, it worked, since I’m conveying the message, so she’s got me to thank if you decide to give her a raise._

_My old man’s still being a stubborn brat about keeping our stronghold on Sreng, though I think I’m starting to chip away at him. I’m probably going to have to let him down at some point, and I’m thinking of doing it as melodramatically as possible. Who knows, I could march up to him and snap the Lance of Ruin in half. Hah, he’d lose his mind! At least my “obstinance” has bought Sreng some time until my father threatens to invade them again-- though he’s unlikely to actually do it unless he has the Lance of Ruin. Which, you know, is back in Galatea, too far for him to grab. Thanks for keeping it safe for both of us. (For now.)_

_Sometimes I wonder why Faerghus annexed Sreng for their spice trade, when we barely use any in our own cooking. (Well, we know the answer, but there, made you laugh!) It took our cook long enough to discover the foreign concept of “pepper”, but I’m not complaining. Speaking of which, I’m glad you liked the curry puffs. And Yuri’s company, but we all know you’re still dreaming about the food. I’m sending some dried goods back with this note. Once winter hits, I’ll be able to send more fresh ingredients back for you, and a few carts full of food and supplies for Galatea in case the harvest doesn’t shake out. I’m not worried, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful._

_By the way, Yuri’s research was incredibly helpful. Once we finally crack the water spell, we’re going to thrive, my love. It might take until the spring harvest, but we’re so close I can almost taste it. Galatea’s going to be a different land in a few years: between the income from the Pegasus Post and the stronger harvests, it’ll be able to stand on its own. Let’s not count our chickens before they hatch, but hopefully, someday, no kid will go hungry again._

_I’m still amazed by your brilliance. I never would've thought of using former war Pegasi for quicker mail dispatch. That’s my Ingrid! It also feels right symbolically, you know? Like we’re taking steps towards a peaceful future._

_One last thing before I sign off. I’m despondent that I can’t ask you in person, but it’s imperative that I know the answer before I perish in panic. Ingrid Brandl Galatea, will you be my date to the Winter Ball at Fhirdiad? I understand that you are not one for dancing, but I can promise delectable food. It’ll be nice to take a break, but also to show our faces at court for the first noble gathering in peacetime. Let me know if you’d like to attend._

_Give little Albert and Alva kisses from me. I hope it tides over till my return. Until then, North Star, I’ll look to you as my guiding light._

_A humble planet who orbits you,  
Sylvain._

*

Moonlight ripples into Ingrid’s room from her window, casting her shadow across her bed. Ingrid grabs the bedside candle and lights the adjacent lamp, allowing soft, gentle warmth to flicker into her room. She marches up to her door and shakes it, ensuring it’s bolted and locked. Ingrid presses her ear against the wooden panel: silence. She heaves a sigh of relief. Good.

A slim package lies on Ingrid's bed, wrapped in brown paper and tied with white cotton string. She picks it up and gives it a good shake; it feels like cloth. This must be what she requested from Fhirdiad. Ingrid rips the packaging open to see deep navy chambrays, accompanied by a white cotton button-down. She unfolds the fabric to study the suit. A plain white card falls out and Ingrid smiles, recognizing Felix’s messy scrawl. 

_This used to be mine. Put it on._

She’s not sure why her heart’s racing, or why she’s shaking with nerves. Perhaps this is more defiant than she’s been in the past, and a part of her still worries should her father finds out. Ingrid inhales deeply, shimmying out of her nightgown and lifting up the button-down shirt.

“Here goes nothing,” she whispers. 

A full-length mirror sits in the corner of her room, largely unused since Sylvain’s departure. Ingrid’s breath catches in her throat as she examines her reflection. The suit’s slightly too long for her legs, but fits perfectly otherwise. She notes how it cinches her waist in the right spots, broadens her shoulders, and strengthens her stance; she thanks the Goddess she asked Felix instead of any of her other friends. Tears spring to her eyes. 

Sylvain called her handsome the last time he saw her in trousers, and she wonders if he’ll do the same if he sees her at the Winter Ball dressed like this. Women showing up to a formal event in a suit isn’t unheard of, but no one will expect it from the future Margravine Gautier. Faerghan court politics dictate her subservience to Sylvain, even if he fell in love with her for her raucous laugh and ravenous appetite. Would the nobles forgive her after marching into Castle Blaiddyd wearing a jacket with coattails and a button-down shirt? 

The realization strikes her like a meteor. 

Nobody would dare stop the future Count Galatea. 

Ingrid stands up a little straighter. Perhaps she’ll wear this to the ball, if she finds the courage. She squeezes her eyes shut, picturing herself on Sylvain’s arm, spinning circles on the dance floor before retiring to heap her plate with mountains of food. She’ll need to tailor the trousers if she doesn’t want to trip over herself, or she could squeeze into high heels. Annette lent her a pair for Dimitri’s coronation that didn’t make her want to hack her legs off by the end of the night. She twirls around in the mirror, giggling with excitement. Bathed in the light of the full moon, ensconced in a wreath of stars— Ingrid hasn’t felt this comfortable in an outfit since the end of the war. 

She’s interrupted by the thunder of footsteps. Her father’s voice booms through the door.

“Ingrid? Are you all right?” 

The magic fades. Ingrid yelps, whirling around. She can almost hear her father’s brow furrow in concern. 

“May I come in?”

*

_Dear Ingrid,_

_I never thought you’d give up on your dream, but it sounds like you found a new dream that’ll help even more people. It’s really, really gallant of you! You were so conflicted about your future back at Garreg Mach. Somehow, I KNEW you’d do the best thing for yourself. You’re going to help so many people!_

_Most of all, I’m so proud of you for listening to your heart. You’ve got a good one, and it’s never steered you wrong. Promise me you’ll keep doing that, okay?_

_Let it illuminate your path ahead._

_See you soon,  
Annette_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long, this chapter has been written for ages but it's been in beta for a bit. thank you so so much to nena and lily for all your hard work 
> 
> while i have your attention, the [sylvgrid zine](https://twitter.com/sylgridzine/status/1307728622422093824?s=20) is open for applications for the next two days if you'd like to check it out (;
> 
> find me in multiship hell @gautired, and feel free to [rt this](https://twitter.com/gautired/status/1315882837904551936) if you enjoyed the chapter!


	3. take my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ingrid's father shakes her conviction to follow her heart. Her strong will serves as a guide.

Ingrid’s in a suit, alone in her room, and her father’s practically ready to batter her door down. Panic grips her in an icy fist. Her heartbeat races with every knock. 

_Shut him out_. 

Ingrid slams her back against the door, nervously tracing the peeling lacquer with her fingertips. Excuses run through her mind-- from “I’m almost asleep” to “I’m busy reading” to “I’m naked! Come back later, Dad”-- but none of them form on her lips. Her father’s voice resounds.

“Ingrid, are you there?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

She bites the inside of her mouth. Maybe this was a bad idea. Word travels quickly in Faerghus; Count Galatea will learn if his daughter attends a court function in a suit. Dimitri isn’t so stuffy and traditional to deny Ingrid attendance, but people talk. Baron Dominic will tell Count Charon who’ll whisper to Margrave Gautier. A letter feigning horror at Ingrid’s choice of clothing will arrive on her father’s desk, and his jaw will drop in white-hot rage.

Ingrid sees her father’s gaze burn through her. She hears the disdain in his voice as he shakes his head, muttering that he should never have let her run wild. That, unlike Sylvain, he would never have let his wife dress like that in public. 

Her eyes bolt wide open. 

_You don’t need your dad’s permission. Or Sylvain’s._

Realization washes through her bones, seeping through her skin. She’s toed her father’s line for far too long. Ingrid grits her teeth, stepping away from the door and sweeping it open. Her father’s lips part in shock when their eyes meet.

 _Surprise, Dad._

Count Galatea blinks in disbelief, and color drains from his face. Her father is gaunt in the pale night, starshine casting shadows on his cheek’s hollows. It strikes Ingrid, then, how much her father’s aged since the war. She must be responsible for the dark circles under his eyes, the wrinkles creasing his brow. The thought strikes her with guilt. For once, it isn’t powerful enough to make her stand down. 

She went to war for this future, after all. A future that belongs to her. This is just the first step to claiming that back. 

“I was-- I was just trying on a new look for the ball,” Ingrid stutters, heartbeat pulsing quick and loud as thunder. She bites her lip, watching her father’s eyes. His silence is louder than any disparaging words might be. Ingrid shifts from side to side. _Compromise_. “The pant legs are too long for me. Annette said she’d lend me some nice heels, maybe, or--”

“And Sylvain?”

“He has no idea,” Ingrid murmurs. It’s simultaneously terrifying and freeing to speak the words. “S-Sylvain doesn’t know. I thought I would surprise him.”

Her father folds his arms. Ingrid’s breath hitches in her throat. She could have lied. She could have formulated some excuse. But she stood her ground and spoke her truth, and the rest is up to her father. The Count folds his arms.

“There were rumors about Sylvain when you were at the academy, you know. That he would lie with men as well as women. If this is your attempt to please him in that regard--”

“I don’t care about that,” Ingrid spits, a flush rising to her cheeks. She’s not confirming the stories even if they are true. “I’m not doing this to please Sylvain. I’m doing this for me. Can’t you see that, father?”

Her father sucks a breathful of air through his teeth. She furls and unfurls her fists, watching her father heave with rage, his chest rising and falling with every motion, every minute. Panic’s cold grip has evolved into full-on fear, and it consumes her in its deadly maw, its jaw clenching her in a locktight clasp. She doesn’t budge.

Ingrid has stared death in its evil eye and spat in its face. Facing her father should be a much less monumental task. 

Her father straightens his back, eyes narrowing in anger. A syllable spills from his jaw, sputtered in rage. Ingrid braces herself, preparing for a slew of hurt. 

He’s interrupted by a gentle sound. 

“I--I think she looks good.”

Her mother’s voice is melodious, serene as a piano’s song. 

The Count whirls around in shock. A lantern illuminates Ingrid’s mother in a warm, welcoming glow. She steps towards Ingrid and her father, a kindly smile spreading across her delicate features. She gets on her tiptoes to kiss Count Galatea on the cheek. He stumbles back.

“Elodie-- Elodie, my love, I--”

“She’s rather handsome, don’t you think? In fact, she almost looks like you did at her age. I knew our Ingrid got her good looks from somewhere.” 

A small, uneasy smile rests on her mother’s lips, and her hand shakes when she rubs circles into Ingrid’s father’s back. Count Galatea blinks at his wife. His throat emits a nasty, choking noise, but her mother clears her throat, and he stops speaking.

Ingrid’s not sure who her mom addressed, or what her throat-clearing achieved, but she won’t complain. 

Her mother’s gaze shifts warily. Her voice trembles when she leans up to faux-whisper, “Let’s get to bed, dear.” Yet this scene feels like a childhood daydream Ingrid had long since stopped yearning for; it didn’t take an intercontinental war to teach Ingrid she had to fight her own battles. Her mother had always supported Ingrid with apologetic glances and whispered comforts after her father yelled. 

This is the first time Ingrid’s seen her mother stand up to her dad, and tears spring to her eyes at the realization. Ingrid lifts a hand to wipe them; her mother shakes her head. 

“Don’t cry,” the Countess whispers. Warmth bursts through Ingrid’s chest, enveloping her heart and ribcage. Ingrid barely notices her father gritting his teeth when he takes a resigned step back. He sighs.

“Let’s talk about this tomorrow,” Count Galatea says, but Ingrid knows he knows she’s won. He trudges back to his room with the Countess’ arm wrapped around his waist, the lantern’s fire flickering by their side. Relief washes over Ingrid when she hears the click of their door. She slumps against her bedroom wall and heaves a sigh.

_What could have come over her?_

Perhaps Yuri’s defiances, and Ingrid’s talking back, have stirred something in her mother. Or perhaps not. Ingrid had been away from home for a while. Time and war change people, and a small rebellion could have brewed within the Countess for months now, maybe years. Ingrid has no way of knowing. A small smile tugs at the edges of her mouth.

Before a hypernova comes a brightly burning star. Ingrid will never know what struck a match to ignite her mother, but galaxies thrive inside the Countess. Ingrid always hoped so. Tonight, she saw constellations for the first time.

*

Ingrid’s whisked to Fhirdiad by a flock of pegasus knights, armed with a gift of freshly-plucked bush beans for the king. The route is far quicker when they’re treading sky. Even with a short rest for food and to ease their pegasi’s wings, Ingrid arrives at Castle Blaiddyd a little less than twenty-four hours later. She’s greeted by the light of the rising sun.

Ingrid’s grown accustomed to governance’s stationary nature, and it’s been a while since she’s ridden for this long with little rest. Exhaustion blankets her with its scornful embrace. It takes every ounce of concentration Ingrid can muster to perfect her landing in the courtyard, and she grits her teeth as she grabs Pasta’s reins, chiding herself to focus, focus. 

Her dignified descent is promptly overshadowed. Ingrid practically lumbers off her mount once she lands, hobbling onto the freshly-mown grass, nearly tripping over her feet in an ungraceful tango. It’s just Ingrid’s luck that Dimitri isn’t there to greet her-- he’s sent his cantankerous companion instead. Felix’s mouth twists into a wicked grin as Ingrid falters. Amusement dances in his sharp brown eyes. 

“It’s only been a few months since the war. Have you forgotten how to ride since?” 

“At least I’ve never been thrown off my mount,” Ingrid says, matching his smirk with one of her own. One thing’s for certain: she’s never going to be too tired to sass Felix. “Anyway, I’m doing great, Felix. Thank you for asking.” She reaches up to scratch behind Pasta’s ears, gently ruffling her cream-colored fur. Judging from her low-pitched whinny and half-cried whine, Pasta must be exhausted too. Ingrid makes a mental note to request fresh hay for her in the stables. 

Felix snorts, striding towards Ingrid.

“Dimitri’s busy with _kingly matters_. He’ll attend to you when he deigns himself ready to greet his friends.” Felix nudges Ingrid with his elbow, which she returns with a gentle kick to his calf. “A stablehand will assist you with that beast, so leave it be. I’m shocked you aren’t too hungry or cold to function.” 

Ingrid narrows her eyes. “She has a name--”

“Pasta is not a name.” 

“It is so!” 

“You can keep telling yourself that,” Felix says, folding his arms as he begins the march indoors. “The castle servants have decked out the formal quarters in your honor. Galatea green and Gautier teal,” he says, raising a bemused eyebrow. Ingrid laughs.

“Thank you, Felix.” 

Gone are the days where Ingrid would have slept tucked away with Dimitri, Felix and Sylvain in a guest bedroom, piled in the same bed. Now she’s here representing Galatea as the future Count, and is being shown the appropriate level of formality. A thrill rushes through Ingrid in her sleep-deprived haze. She straightens her back.

Isn’t she just Ingrid at the end of the day? She’s still Ingrid, the child who’d spun lances and swung swords in her backyard, who’d cried herself to sleep over knighthood. Ingrid, a warm body who’d fought in a war, holding Faerghus’ skylines while she grasped her childhood goals. Ingrid, who’d been given the chance to make her dreams come true-- and who’d chosen to walk away, chosen to step back from everything she’d once yearned for. 

She’s Ingrid, who takes a few steps indoors, glances around to check that no-one else is looking, and pulls her childhood friend into a warm, tight hug. 

“I missed you,” she whispers through tears. Felix’s grunt confirms he feels the same. 

Dimitri, Mercedes and Dedue meet her and Felix at brunch. They spend the meal laughing about old times, sharing stories about their friends. Ingrid would have never pegged Dedue as a gossip, but his eyes dance with amusement when Mercedes shares Annette’s future plans. 

Perhaps peacetime has changed Dedue. Or did war warp them all? Ingrid glances across the table, watching her old classmates banter and laugh, Felix slinging jabs at Dimitri and Dimitri refuting them with his own. Mercedes leans her head on Dedue’s shoulder and gently squeezes his hand. It’s almost hard to believe Mercedes had lost the last member of her birth family just over a year ago, crouched over the battlefield, sobbing over her dead brother’s bloodied corpse. A harsh, wrenching sensation twists in Ingrid’s gut. 

Maybe in a different, more peaceful life, Jeritza would be sitting at the table with them, laughing over tea and ice cream too. Ingrid squeezes her eyes shut, furling and unfurling her fists. 

There’s no sense dwelling over what-ifs or what could have been. And even if the future might loom with potential strife, there’s no sense guilting herself for the past. She and her classmates ended a brutal war together, and they’ve gathered to celebrate. Ingrid stirs a cube of sugar into her chamomile tea, rolling her eyes at Dimitri’s poor attempt at a joke.

Sylvain will be here in a few hours. Soon, she’ll hold him in her arms, run her hands through her hair, feel his breath against her skin when he leans in to speak her name. The very thought is enough to fill Ingrid with excitement, almost drowning out the part of her that screams _you could have done more during the war_. 

Felix’s back is turned in the meantime. Ingrid grins, swiping the last ham sandwich off his plate with a triumphant flourish. Dedue stifles a childlike snort and hides his face behind a bright pink napkin. 

Ashe and Yuri arrive from Gaspard right before teatime, and Ingrid’s more than happy to enjoy a snack with them in their guest room. Their fingers remain interlocked for the entirety of the meal, and it’s a small miracle Felix doesn’t jibe them for being disgusting. The professor, Cyril and Bernadetta shuffle in soon after, followed by Leonie, Hapi, Seteth and Flayn. By then, Ingrid’s taken to pacing the entrance hall and courtyards, keeping an eye on the roads, the sky, the horizon. Sylvain mentioned he’d be riding in by horseback, but perhaps he’d taken to the skies on a wyvern instead. 

Ingrid wraps her scarf tightly around her neck. It’s chilly for early winter, but she wants to greet her love. Perhaps the twin spectres of duty and war hadn’t clobbered the romanticism out of her.

A faint dot surfaces in the distance. The swooping sound of wyvern’s wings makes Ingrid’s heart soar with glee. The majestic creatures begin their descent, and Ingrid dashes towards them, squinting. Perhaps it’s the bright glare of the setting sun, but she swears she sees a flash of fire-red hair on one of their riders, and the familiar sea green of the Gautier crest. She picks up her pace, swallowing the lump in her throat as though it might help contain her excitement--

A melodious, feminine voice halts Ingrid in her tracks.

“Ingrid! It’s been _forever_!”

There’s only one person with volume control this poor. Ingrid laughs, humor dancing in her eyes as they meet Annette’s. Annette lets out a howl of excitement as her wyvern approaches the ground, Hilda giggling and holding onto her girlfriend for dear life. And even if Ingrid can’t deny the slight pang of disappointment that twists through her gut, it’s still lovely to see Annette. Peacetime has been so, so kind to her. 

The hollows war left in Annette’s cheeks have been filled out by Leicester cuisine, and there’s a roundness to her hips and stomach that wasn’t there before. She looks so much happier this way. It suits her. Annette leaps off her wyvern, flinging herself at Ingrid in embrace.

“I missed you so much. I looked forward to your letters every day. How’s everyone? I’m sorry I’m late, but I thought I’d packed my favorite hairbrush, and we were an hour out before I realized. I told Hilda to carry on but she insisted we all turn back, and I protested, but I didn’t want to say no to her, so--”

“It’s fine,” Ingrid heaves. Her laughter carries in the frigid wind. “I missed you too.” 

Her first instinct is to think that Annette hasn’t changed a bit. She instantly corrects herself-- Annette _has_ changed. There’s a spring to her step that Ingrid had once thought vanished, and when Annette giggles, Ingrid hears chimes, not war bells. The grey streaks in Annette’s hair are remnants from their time of strife, but they suit her. They can live as symbols of wisdom instead of war. Annette beams.

“Where’s Sylvain? Is he late? I’ll fight him if he’s making you wait out here in the cold.” Annette flexes an arm. “Hilda’s been making me work out with her, and I’ve gotten really strong. I bet I could take Sylvain now--”

Annette is interrupted by a playful tenor Ingrid never thought she’d hear again. 

“Hate to interrupt this reunion, but aren’t you going to say hi to me?” 

Ingrid’s blood turns to ice. 

Claude von Riegan is simultaneously endearing and infuriating, a puzzle her simple mind still can’t decipher. It’s almost comforting to know those feelings haven’t changed. Claude dismounts a cream-colored wyvern clad in red and green Almyran regalia. He’d never mentioned his other heritage during their Academy days, or shared that he was the heir to two nations, not one. How convenient. Claude reaches into his pockets for a treat, tossing it to his wyvern with a smug grin.

Ingrid isn’t sure what it is about Claude that makes her want to hug him _and_ punch him. She settles with a nod and a wave.

“Hello, Claude.” 

Hilda dismounts her steed right after, blowing Ingrid a lip gloss-stained kiss. 

“Hope you don’t mind dear old Claude joining us,” Hilda says. “What were the odds that we’d run into each other in the sky?”

“Not great,” Ingrid says weakly, though she’s not sure if Hilda wanted an answer. The Goddess is testing her. She grimaces when Claude slings an overfamiliar arm across her shoulder, though she can’t say that the contact is completely unwelcome. 

They’d last met on the battlefield as allies, even if they hadn’t managed to talk. She’d misjudged him years ago when she accused him of being just like Sylvain. Unlike Claude, Sylvain would have stood his ground proudly if he’d been at the helm in Deirdiu, going down fighting till the bitter end. 

But Claude is alive because he asked for help. He’d weighed his options, swallowed his pride, and pleaded with Dimitri for aid. Those choices led Claude here to Faerghus’ Winter Ball, warm and alive, beaming as he pulls away from Ingrid. Ingrid allows herself a reluctant smile. Fódlan and Almyra have plenty to learn from one another. Claude leans in to whisper.

“I’d turn around if I were you.” 

Her heart bursts with joy at the next voice reverberating around the courtyard. 

“Ingrid! Ingrid!” 

Horse hooves thunder in the distance. She whirls around. Ingrid catches sight of a familiar grin, and her heart stops. 

She’s home. She’s finally home.

“You’re here!” 

Sylvain yells with excitement, vaulting off his horse and bounding towards Ingrid at top speed. His smile is bright and radiant as it was the day they’d parted, and Ingrid is hit with a sudden sense of ease: it’s over, it’s over. Sylvain’s time in Gautier is over. Their separation is over. She rushes to greet him, counting down the seconds until she’ll be in his arms--

Before Ingrid has the chance to react, Sylvain hoists Ingrid by the waist, spinning her around. He plants a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek, and a fluttering sensation soars through her chest-- one akin to the joy of liftoff, the feeling she’d been chasing since she’d flown on a Pegasus’ back for the first time as a young girl. In Sylvain’s embrace she feels truly at peace, truly _free_. Warmth spreads through Ingrid as he sets her on the ground, and she throws her arms around him, enveloping him in a tight hug.

“I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” Sylvain says. “Sorry I’m late. Wish I could say it was fashionably so, but my old man called a last-minute meeting with some Srengi diplomat yesterday morning. He thought I’d be gone before I found out, but Charise overheard and let me know, so--”

“It’s okay,” Ingrid murmurs. She buries her face into the crook of Sylvain’s neck. His heartbeat sings to the tune of comfort and life, and she feels hers speed up to keep pace with his. “Is everything going to be fine back there? You didn’t have to abandon the negotiations just for me--”

“And risk diplomatic disaster by not showing up to the ball?” Sylvain murmurs, rubbing circles in Ingrid’s back. “It’ll be fine. I sweet-talked my father’s aide into _seeing my perspective_.” 

Ingrid pulls away. Her brow knots for a split second before remembering he’s repurposed his silver tongue for politics, not women. She’s learned to trust him. Sylvain laughs, cupping Ingrid’s cheeks with cold hands. Her breath melds together with his, forming a mist, and Sylvain kisses her on the nose.

“I spent my time in Gautier building some connections,” he winks. “We owe Charise for my presence here. But that’s enough about me. How long have you been waiting out here for? Come on, let’s get you warmed up. You can tell me all about the Galatea Pegasus Post when you’re in front of a warm fire, eating your eighth meal of the day.”

Ingrid pouts, muttering something about how Sylvain’s the one who she should be concerned about. He laughs, pressing another sloppy smooch to Ingrid’s forehead. She rolls her eyes.

Yet it’s hard to hide her bright flush, and the ever-growing smile on her lips. Even Claude’s teasing kissy noises can’t ruin this moment. Ingrid glances around quickly to make sure no stuffy nobles are looking, and gives him a rude gesture that would make Yuri proud.

*

Sylvain has never finished getting ready before Ingrid.

She’d watch Sylvain fuss at his reflection during their time at school, clicking his tongue as he massaged goop into his hair. He’d taken impeccable care of his appearance at the start of the war, showing up to strategy meetings clean-shaven and bright-eyed. “Not everyone’s got your natural beauty,” he’d half-stutter, half-blush, gently kicking her foot under the table in what she later realized was an attempt to flirt.

He soon stopped using concealer to hide his dark circles, burn marks, and the scar across his lip. Such was the toll that battle took on him. 

Thankfully, Sylvain has returned to his coquettish, vain roots in time for the ball. He steps out from their suite’s adjoining bathroom with a laugh, hair perfectly tousled, scars covered up. Ingrid can’t help but think he looks more human with them-- more like the veteran who’s been forged through the fires of war, more _Sylvain_ \-- but she’d be a hypocrite if she were to comment. Sylvain blows her a kiss.

“Not getting changed?” 

“I’m-- I might take a while,” Ingrid mumbles, inching towards the edge of the bed. Her hair is still in a towel. She toys with the hem of her bathrobe. Sylvain frowns.

“What’s keeping you?” he asks, placing a reassuring hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. He’s forsaken Gautier military regalia for attire more suited for peacetime, and he looks immaculate in his dark red bowtie and three-piece tux. Trust Sylvain to turn even his clothes into a mini-revolution. It’s one of the things she loves most about him, and Ingrid smiles despite the knot tightening in her stomach. 

“I’ll be alright,” she murmurs. The future Margrave and Margravine are expected in the ballroom soon, and Ingrid’s expected to hang off Sylvain’s arm in a long, flowy dress. She hadn’t mentioned her plan of defiance to him: she hasn’t had the guts. Sylvain kisses her, light and airy, and she relishes the warm, familiar contact. They’ve been apart for so long that Ingrid can scarcely believe they’re back together, even now. He squeezes her hand.

“Not feeling too well? Do you need me to call a healer? Mercedes might be busy, but I’ll see if she’s got any--”

“I’m doing great,” she stutters, averting Sylvain’s gaze. The butterflies in Ingrid’s stomach have turned to angry, vicious snakes. They threaten to swallow her with their venom, and Ingrid can feel their piercing teeth through her heart, her gut. Sylvain wraps his arm around her waist.

“No you aren’t,” he says. His tone is so soft and non judgmental that it fills Ingrid with a burst of courage. She sighs and gets up, swinging her trunk open and pulling her outfit from its depths. Ingrid shoves the suit at Sylvain, slightly rumpled from its travels.

“Here,” she sputters, “Felix and I-- we talked about this. He sent it to me. I was thinking of maybe wearing this tonight--”

Sylvain’s lips part, and his eyes widen with a mixture of what Ingrid thinks is pride and awe.

“Put it on,” he whispers. “You’re going to look amazing.”

Sylvain bends down to help Ingrid with her buttons, helps her slip on the cuff links where they belong. He casts the jacket across her shoulders and slides it on, and Ingrid marvels at how the fabric glides across her skin, the pashmina hugging her perfectly as though it belongs there. 

Her mother had saved Ingrid’s clumsy attempt to tailor the pants with her meticulous handiwork. Ingrid slips them on, and she’s not sure if she’s bubbling with excitement or nerves. It’s likely a combination of the two, even when Sylvain steps back and beams, his face lighting up with unmistakable glee.

“I told you,” he says, turning Ingrid around so she can face herself in the mirror. Light bounces off her likeness, radiating her in a halo of warmth; Ingrid gasps with shock. Now she isn’t in the shrouded darkness of secrecy it’s easier to see how the suit hugs her in the right places, makes her seem tall and broad and commanding. 

_This is how it’s meant to be_. 

She touches her reflection in a mixture of awe and surprise. Sylvain laughs-- his voice is full of mirth, not malice, and the tension in Ingrid’s shoulders eases. Relief pours through her chest, her back; she turns towards Sylvain. His grin is bright and brilliant, and it burns as warmly as the flames in Galatea Manor’s hearth. 

“Come closer,” he says, voice low, uncharacteristically serious in a way that Ingrid can’t refuse. He pulls her into a kiss, and Ingrid’s heart feels like it could burst in a cosmic explosion. It’s a luminous blast of feeling, a passion that leaves her breathless, floating amongst the stars. 

Sylvain pulls away to whisper, “You’re so handsome,” on her lips. Ingrid flushes, barely able to stutter her thanks. Sylvain cups her cheeks with his hands.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says with such conviction that she almost believes him. 

They rush down Castle Blaiddyd’s winding stairways, Ingrid’s braid getting loose and tousled in the mad dash. Sylvain helps her fix it by the ballroom’s entrance before stepping in. His rough fingertips trail against her neck as he clips her barrette back in. She turns to face Sylvain once he’s done. 

“I’m glad I can count on you.”

Ingrid takes Sylvain’s hand, sucking in a deep breath of air before stepping into the ballroom. The judging eyes and pointed glares won’t change the fact that she’ll be Count someday, and the realization makes her stand a little taller. Ingrid’s attire and presentation are a tiny matter in the grand scheme of things. No, she has reforms to propose that’ll anger the conservatives in Dimitri’s cabinet; policies to overhaul that will send them into squabbling fits. 

Ingrid’s nobody special-- she was just fortunate enough to have been blessed with a Crest, birthed at the right place at the right time under the correct alignment of stars. Her privilege puts her in the perfect position to exact change, and she will. She returns Baron Dominic’s scowl with a knowing smirk.

 _No one would dare stop the future Count Galatea_.

Annette’s uncle flinches and turns away. Sylvain’s gaze flickers to him, then back at Ingrid. His brow knots.

“Need me to say something?” he asks. 

Ingrid shakes her head. “Pay him no mind.” 

The Baron isn’t worth her energy. Not when Ingrid has lives to change, fires to start. But first, the buffet tables. The scent of honey-cured ham hangs in the atmosphere, and Ingrid’s certain she smells grilled steak and curried lamb. She tugs Sylvain’s arm, marching him towards the promised land. 

They’ve got the rest of their lives to revolutionize Faerghus, and they’ll do it together.

*

Sylvain makes at least five jokes about Ingrid going _ham_ at the buffet table, and only decorum keeps Ingrid from throwing a drumstick at him. Starting the first ever food fight between Faerghan nobility probably won’t do Ingrid’s reputation any favors. So Ingrid raises a brow at his latest rendition of the jape, fighting the smile that teases the edges of her lips. She can’t resist snorting when Sylvain smirks at her.

“I’m going to get some fresh air,” Ingrid says, biting the inside of her mouth to stifle a giggle. “I’ll need it to recover from that joke.” 

“Aw, Ingrid,” Sylvain drums his fingers against the table. “Was it a miss- _steak--”_

The esteemed King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd almost spits out his water from where he sits across the table. Ingrid gets up and sighs.

“Sylvain, that was terrible. I’m leaving. You can come if you promise to stop making puns,” she says, a subtle plea for his time. They’ve barely had the chance to be alone. Ingrid has learned to respect Sylvain the sweet-talker, Sylvain the merrymaker, Sylvain the fiend, but her favorite version of Sylvain is the man mostly seen behind closed doors. In this crowd of liars, politicians and thieves, the real Sylvain’s the person she misses most-- and he understands. 

Sylvain nods, scrambling to his feet and taking her hand. Ingrid leads him through the seas of people, weaving through the bustling crowd and the dancers on the ballroom floor. A closed stained-glass door hides a balcony overlooking Fhirdiad. Ingrid fumbles with the handle and it opens with a click. She drags Sylvain outside and shuts the door behind them. 

It’s crisp and cool out tonight, and a slight breeze nips at her nose and ears. Ingrid takes a deep breath, relishing the early winter air. Her thoughts drift to her people back in Galatea; the harvest season will soon be over. Food will be spread thinly this year, but at least there’ll be just enough thanks to Sylvain’s magic and her research that preceded it. Besides, with the winter comes the holidays. The Galatea Pegasus Post is about to get busy: maybe she can negotiate for extra food and supplies with the funding it will bring. 

It will be a few years before snowfall brings Galatea comfort, not fear, but at least Ingrid can sleep easy knowing her first year in governance will leave her people clothed and fed. She leans across the railing, gazing at the city lights. Sylvain marches across to join her.

“Do you want to leave soon?” he asks. “I know you aren’t a big fan of all the--” Sylvain makes a wavy hand gesture-- “All of that. The posturing, the networking. The kissing ass.”

Ingrid shakes her head. “I’m happy to be here,” she says. She’s not lying. Much as she loathes navigating the intricacies of who’s here and who’s who, the falseness of curtsies and plastered smiles, it’s good to see the ranks of nobility fill out with people who will make things better. Young people like Felix occupy seats of honor, and tears sprung to Ingrid’s eyes when Dimitri delivered his welcome speech, thanking them for being here. Perhaps there’s something to these fancy events aside from the delicious food. 

Ingrid wraps her arms around Sylvain’s waist, pulling him closer. 

“I’ll be fine after a short rest, so let’s stay a little longer. It’s easier to do this sort of thing with you.”

Sylvain grins. “You make these events easier, too. Always have. Remember when we used to play hide-and-seek in the ballroom as kids? Glenn and I always knew where to find you. Under the buffet table, stuffing your face with turkey legs. Your father always got so mad at us.”

Ingrid quirks a smile. “My favorite place hasn’t changed.”

“It really hasn’t,” Sylvain says, leaning in and brushing strands of hair out of Ingrid’s face. She wonders if her braid has come loose again thanks to the wind and the dancing, but most of the attendees are too drunk now to care. She unclips the barrette holding her hairstyle together, allowing her hair to fall in short blonde waves around her face. Sylvain tucks some stray hairs behind an ear, gently caressing Ingrid’s chin.

“Thanks for joining me here. I really appreciate it.”

“My crush asked me to a ball and I couldn’t say no,” Ingrid says. Sylvain turns pink, and Ingrid swells with pride. Who says he’s the only one who knows how to flirt? 

“Ing-- Ingrid--”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Ingrid says. She sighs and stares into the distance. “My father wanted the future Count Galatea to make an appearance in his stead. And I assume that your father wanted the same.”

“He didn’t, actually,” Sylvain says, his gaze casting a devious shadow. “I may or may not have persuaded him to stay behind to take care of Sreng. He doesn’t need to know about the machinations I’ve set in place... Or that I’ve talked to some of the Srengi leaders on my own.” Sylvain winks. “I figured it might be good for me to start making public appearances instead of him. Make it look like a shift in power. He’s too self-obsessed to realize what I’m doing, and too set on Sreng’s destruction. I’ll be a little sad when he gets what he deserves.”

Sylvain speaks the last phrase like he’s reading the morning news, and a chill travels through Ingrid’s spine. She’s watched him pull the strings at Galatea, sweet-talk his father in his letters back to Gautier, but it’s been a while since he’s manipulated someone like this in front of her. The thought of being Sylvain’s enemy is unfathomably dangerous. 

_I’m glad we want the same thing._

“That--that makes sense,” Ingrid says, tripping over her words, uncertain. She isn’t sure how else to respond. “Please be careful.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt” goes unspoken between the two. She’s had a taste of what the Margrave is capable of secondhand; Ingrid’s certain that the full story is a tale heavier than Sylvain can bring himself to tell. Sylvain leans against the bannister. 

“All for our future,” he says, and it isn’t with the bitter, dismissive tone that he once used to speak the phrase. No, there’s a lightness to his words, a hope that his voice never carried during their days at war. “I promise I’ll be fine. You’ve got enough to worry about without adding me to the mix.”

“I can’t help it,” Ingrid says before she can stop herself. “You’re going to have to go back when we’re done with the ball here. And I’m not sure when I’ll next see you again. I think of you in that manor, all alone--”

“It sucks,” Sylvain says. “But we’ve all got to make some sacrifices to get what we want. Besides, thanks to the Pegasus Post, we can write to each other more often. One of your letters got to me in two days. That’s unimaginable. What are you going to invent next, teleportation?”

“Very funny, Sylvain.” Again, Ingrid can’t help but smile. “You don’t have to flatter me, but thank you.” 

“Just being painfully honest. I courted the most capable and determined person I’ve ever met, and I’m going to marry her someday. How did I get so lucky?”

“Sylvain,” Ingrid sighs, half-exasperated, half-fond. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re incredible. Aren’t we a great pair?”

Nerves twist through Ingrid’s gut. Here stands Sylvain Jose Gautier, holding her close, stroking her hair, telling her how incredible she is with unshakeable conviction. She’s been with him for long enough to know that this isn’t just him buttering her up-- he speaks each word with such confidence that she almost believes him too. But self-doubt inevitably sinks in like poisoned lead, and Ingrid rubs her temples. 

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I’m doing my best, but I’m not sure it’s enough. Sometimes I think my skills would be better applied elsewhere--”

“You’re kidding, right?” Sylvain grabs Ingrid’s shoulders. “You’ve done so well. Not just for someone who didn’t ever plan on being a leader-- you’ve smashed all expectations! I heard Dimitri talk about using the Galatea Pegasus Post for diplomatic exchanges with Almyra and Duscur. Galatea will actually get fed. And you’re just getting started. This is just the beginning. Think of all the lives you’ve probably saved.”

“I know,” Ingrid whispers. “I just wonder if someone else might have done better in my position. I’d always trained to be a knight, you know?” 

“It’s not too late for you to choose knighthood,” Sylvain says. He pulls Ingrid closer. The flush on her cheeks blooms. “I’ve got your father wrapped around my little finger. If we pretend it’s my decree, he won’t stop you from being a knight. I’ll take care of Galatea. We’ll bend the system and make it happen,” he says. A devious smirk tugs at Sylvain’s lips. All she needs to do is speak the word and he’ll make it happen.

She closes her eyes, remembering the feeling of wind in her hair, thrills rushing through her spine as she took flight to arrive in Fhirdiad. The Professor had always praised her lancework, admired her swordfaire poise. She’d never felt more powerful than she had when donning her helmet and armor, tossing a javelin. Her childhood dream is in her grasp. Sylvain continues to speak.

“You’ve spent your entire life cleaning up after other people’s messes. You’ve never stopped guiding me home. It’s time for you to light your own path. So tell me,” Sylvain asks, pressing his nose against Ingrid’s, “What would you pick? In an ideal world-- no expectations, no rules, would you drop all of this and become a knight? I’ll see what I can do.”

She’s suddenly struck by how attractive Sylvain is, his face half-backlit by the ballroom’s warm glow, half-illuminated by Fhirdiad’s city lights. Ingrid lifts a hand to touch his face, marveling at how warm he feels under her cold fingertips. He laughs, lifting his calloused fingers to his cheeks to take hers. She can’t help but smile back despite the tears brimming in her eyes--

From absolutely nowhere at all, Ingrid hears a scream.

She flinches and recoils. Her soldiers’ screeches ring through her ears, their cries of help as arrows pierced through them, tumbling to the ground as life vanished from their eyes. How she’d wandered through piles of bodies after battles, eyes stained with tears as she collected their Faerghan regalia, whispering to herself that she’d create a world where this would never happen again. Where there’d be no more need for warfare. 

That meant no more need for knights.

She swallows the lump in her throat, forcing a smile. 

“That’s very nice of you, Sylvain,” Ingrid whispers. “But I’d choose this.”

Sylvain blinks back in surprise. Ingrid continues to speak.

“I’m not going to hide behind you. I’d-- I’d like to help create a world where children might have other dreams. It won’t just be knighthood or marriage for girls. Not service or the fields for boys. There are so many paths to a better Faerghus... Not all of them lead to war.” 

Sylvain nods slowly. Ingrid waits for him to respond, but Sylvain strokes his chin. It’s his way of compelling her to continue. 

“Despite everything... I’d choose this,” Ingrid says. “I want to take an active role in shaping a better world. For people like Ysolde, for Yuri, for Annette. For _us_.” 

Her voice shakes as she speaks, but she believes every word once her clumsy tongue manages to shape them. Sylvain wraps his arms around her, pulling her to his chest and resting his chin on her head. It’s warm now. Ingrid’s unsure if it’s from Sylvain’s body heat, or if she’s charged with happiness. She’s so, so lucky to have someone who’ll listen. 

“You can change your mind whenever you want,” Sylvain murmurs. “No matter what you do, I’ll support you, okay?”

Ingrid nods, swallowing the lump in her throat. She knows she’ll have Sylvain’s unconditional support no matter what: her conviction has to come from within. And even if her confidence as a leader flickers, it’s her job to keep that fire burning bright. 

Sylvain’s spoken at length about constellations and skylines, about galaxies and stars. Ingrid recalls keeping watch with Sylvain on the way to battle Edelgard at Fhirdiad; she’d pressed close to him outside their tent as he chattered about space. “Someday there’ll be pegasi and wyvern that can take us to the stars,” he’d said, squeezing her hand tightly. “We’ll probably be dead by then. But most of these stars will live on. And new ones will be born too.”

“How are stars born?” she’d asked, resting her head on his shoulder.

“It sounds crazy,” he’d smiled, “But when you put light atoms under a ton of pressure, they end up fusing together in a cloud of gas and stardust. And bam,” Sylvain said, pointing into the sky, “That’s how you get a star.”

Ingrid bites the inside of her mouth. She’s not sure that anything could justify the lives lost in war, but perhaps some good came out of it. It taught her there were more paths to a bright future than bloodshed. She’d become a stronger ruler, ready to push Faerghus towards that light. Sylvain helped show her that, but it was her choices that led her here. 

If it took a war to push her and Sylvain together, so be it. A gentle laugh falls from Ingrid’s lips.

Perhaps there’s some truth to Sylvain’s silly North Star metaphor. Ingrid bumps their noses together.

“What would _you_ choose, Sylvain? In a world with no Relics, no Crests-- what would you choose?”

“That’s easy,” Sylvain says, his breath forming mist clouds in the space between them. “I’d choose you. You make me the best version of me. I’d choose any path that led me your way.” 

Ingrid pulls Sylvain down to plant a kiss on his lips.

“Me too,” she whispers. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit, i'm done.
> 
> thank you gnats for helping me proofread this chapter. you should check out her works at [eyegnats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyegnats) if you haven't already, because she's the absolute best! i aspire to have a brain as big as hers. 
> 
> this fic is nothing short of a love letter to a ship that i love to pieces, that i wish canon had done right by. i love their paired ending because of the implications, but i constantly lament that ingrid isn't mentioned more in it. this is what i imagine she does: think of this as me trying to set fodlan history right. and this tale would never have happened without my own north star, whose guiding light i wake up to every morning. you know who you are. thank you. 
> 
> find me on twitter @gautired, where i make bad tweets and cry about a different ship every day. feel free to [rt](https://twitter.com/gautired/status/1321689600708931585) this fic if you liked it! it's my baby.


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